


Near, possible, inevitable

by noisette



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Awesome Peggy Carter, BAMF Bruce Banner, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bondage and Discipline, Clint Barton Feels, Coulson Cameo, Crossdressing Kink, Dom/sub Play, Dubious Consent, Electrocution, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, Femdom, Good People Doing Bad Things For The Right Reasons, Het and Slash, Hurt/Comfort, James Rhodes Cameo, Kink Negotiation, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, M/M, Maledom, Manipulation, Mistaken Identity, Multi, Pegging, Polyfidelity, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sex Toys, St. Andrew's Cross, Thor Is Not Stupid, Threesome - M/M/M, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noisette/pseuds/noisette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fifty for an hour," Steve tells her. "Sixty for my mouth." Steve sells the only thing he’s got left and Natasha's buying. She’s not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed and enabled by the wonderful Stomps, without whom I wouldn’t have ventured into hookerfic at all, let alone 50k of it. A great big thank you (and possibly a 'It's all your fault'.)
> 
> Issues of dubious consent are at the core of this fic and some scenes could be considered triggering. Exercise caution.

"I get paid up front," Steve says, chin jutting out defiantly. It's like asking for a punch and then it's not, because that's happened before without leaving him with psychological scars; he's stronger than he looks.  _Scrappy_ , Peggy calls him when she's feeling kind.  _Stupid_ 's her usual fare, though, as if reminding Steve will change him for the better. 

 

Red cocks her head, rouged lips pinched against the temptation of a smile. (He's not that funny.) "How much?"

 

It's a good question. He has a standard rate, most people who've been doing this a while learn how to set competitive prices, and he adjusts depending on the clientele. The woman tapping her steering wheel with perfectly manicured fingers looks like some kind of office employee. She's pretty enough to be a model, but her clothes are dark and conservative. She's not scruffy enough to look like something you'd put on a runway. ( _A blank canvas_ , Peggy once said,  _that's what you are_.) There's no ring on Red's finger. That's a good sign.

 

"Fifty for an hour," Steve tells her. "Sixty for my mouth."

 

She arches a brow. "That's ambitious."

 

"I'm that good." It would be more believable if he could say it with feeling or a wink, like the new blood. He can't. "—and it's a hundred if you're into anything weird."

 

The woman actually smiles at that, flashing pearly white teeth like a pair of fangs. Steve shudders for no reason; the evening chill has taken permanent residence under his clothes and fear won't keep him fed. He knows he's not much to look at. Then again, that's true of the competition all along the sidewalk. If Red wants to sleep with jocks, she'll have better luck haunting the bars downtown for college knuckleheads. Steve keeps the suggestion to himself. He waits her out. 

 

Two bills are held out through the open window and he can just make out President's Grant bearded face. Hundred dollars total. "Get in," the woman tells him, not unkindly. She presses a button and the passenger side door unlatches with a click. It's good she takes precautions in this kind of neighborhood. Peggy would approve. 

 

Steve doesn't let himself hesitate; he crosses to the other side of the car and slips into the air conditioned, leather interior. The Ford Mustang peels off with a squeal of tires. 

 

He tries not to stare at the woman as she drives, but his gaze keeps slipping, particularly when they stop at a light. The Ford still has that new car smell. He wonders if she only just bought it, then reminds himself it makes no difference. He's been fucked in vans and back alleys that smell of garlic and death things before. He won't kick up a fuss about plastic and squeaky leather.

 

To his surprise, though, Red doesn't find the first deserted underpass to slide back her seat and tell him to get to work. It's a good thing Steve knows the city so well or he'd be feeling a mite worried right about now. 

 

When at last she cuts the engine, Red's smiling. "You're a quiet one." It could be a compliment, but Steve decides to treat it as a casual observation: easier that way and he doesn't have to say thank you. (He hates saying thank you. He earns his money, damn it.) He hitches up a shoulder but it's already too late. The redhead slides her keys out of the ignition and makes to step out of the car. 

 

"Wait." Steve swallows hard. "Do you live here?"

 

"Does it matter?" The woman's neck is a long, pale line. Steve catches sight of a silver chain just under the collar of her starched white shirt. He thinks about stealing it before he takes off. Theft is just a step above his profession, isn't it?   
  
He pushes the thought aside. "It does, if there's more than one of you... Price goes up." Just like his blood pressure. 

 

"You'll get it when you're done," Red tells him and the car shakes as she clicks the door shut in her wake. Steve has no choice but to follow. He doesn't let himself think of running. 

 

The brownstone is nicer than any he's been in before; that's no dig against his regulars, some of them are pretty clean and tame, only they don't usually have room to invite Steve home. The missus might find out. Or the girlfriend. Steve has learned to be okay with being their dirty little secret. He takes a deep breath, tells himself he'll make do with whatever he finds inside Red's apartment. It's no small surprise to discover it empty after all. 

 

"I thought." Steve catches himself breathing easy. Stupid. Right. "It's nice." If she lives here, that might count for something but his client doesn't give much away.

 

Red nudges the door shut with her foot and peels off her blazer. "You want something to drink?"   
  
 _It's your time_ , he thinks. Says, "I'm good" because he knows sass won't get him a tip, never mind that extra hundred he could really use. He's just sunk his hands into the tight pockets of his laundromat-soft jeans when Red comes to a stop right in front of him, her fingers prying open the buttons on her shirt. He'd help, but he hasn't been invited to touch. Some clients are strict about that. Granted, his sample might be skewed; Steve hasn't had a female client in at least six months and the last one was only interested because her boyfriend was gunning for a threesome. He swallows hard, cheeks heating as he shuffles closer. Thinks about kissing the woman. What he ends up asking is: "What's your name?"

 

"Natasha." She cocks her head, something feline in the gesture. "And you?"

 

Steve has written up a list of fake identities for this purpose. He's got parallel sob stories and he's learned how to talk his way out of giving up the last inches of dignity he still holds dear. All of which he forgets when Natasha reaches for her fly. "I. I'm Steve." He is and against all reason, he's actually getting  _hard_ for this softcore, live action porn.

 

That old mantra about whores not kissing on the mouth has never worked for him. Clients keep wanting to touch his lips and once they've stuck more than a finger in there, it seems crazy to protest against a kiss. Like locking the barn door after the horse has bolted. 

 

He expects Natasha -- pretty name, pretty woman. Dame.  _Lady_. -- to do it. She's hovering close enough and her fingers scrape through his hair, nails too neatly trimmed to hurt, but she only smiles and tells him he's wearing too many clothes. Okay, she doesn't say that. Steve just really wishes she were because it would be an excuse and he'd have no choice but to take off his shirt, maybe even his pants. He could maybe touch himself while she watches. 

 

Whatever she's looking to find in his expression must leave her cold because rather than push him into the door and have his way with him, Natasha slithers back. "There's another fifty in the pot if you sit down to dinner with me." It would help if she said it without simultaneously shrugging off her white shirt and tugging her skirt past generous hips. 

 

Steve presses nails into the meat of his palms. "Why?"

 

"I'm hungry," she says, taking no notice of the wary quiver in his voice. "There's leftover Chinese in the fridge. Can you microwave it while I grab a shower? Thanks." 

 

As far as Steve can tell, they're alone in this apartment and her purse is right freaking there, slung over an armchair. It makes literally no sense that Natasha should turn her back on him -- unless she's into flirting with danger, in which case she's picked the wrong kind of evening entertainment. Steve makes himself move. The kitchen is cramped and ridiculously tidy; there aren't even any dishes in the sink. He finds the takeout cartons in the fridge, but little else. Does Natasha live here? Does anyone?

 

By the time the microwave dings, she's standing with hip cocked against the counter and a thin smile on her lips. "You're still here."

 

Steve flinches; he didn't hear her approach. "You paid me a hundred bucks," he says, like that explains why he didn't just steal her wallet and get out. One look at her is enough to figure out she's wondering the same thing. Steve's erection has abated a little while he was alone; it's in no danger of returning, however pretty Natasha looks in her silk, black robe, legs long and bare, the curve of her bare breasts showing through the material. He sucks in a breath. "Dinner's ready?"

 

He hasn't been this nervous since Peggy first found out what he does for a living. It blew any chance he might've had with her, obviously, which he doesn't think is likely to happen here. 

 

Clearly Natasha doesn't believe in eating at the dark mahogany, so they curl up on her couch with their microwaved leftovers and eat in silence. On the flatscreen, the evening news plays out undisturbed. And all the while Steve feels anxiety surge to the back of his throat, making it harder and harder to swallow as he waits for whatever it is Natasha wants to do to him -- it's never _with_ him, that's not how it works in this business -- for one hundred and fifty dollars. 

 

"Are you a junkie?" she asks, seemingly out of the blue. 

 

"What? No." It's a little ridiculous that he still has it in him to feel affronted. Bucky would laugh, if he were here. He's not. Steve shakes his head. "I'm clean. I swear. I don't do that stuff." Not that it hasn't been tempting, but he's seen what addiction does to people and he barely makes enough to cover food and electricity bills. Plus, he wouldn't be able to look Peggy in the eye. 

 

Natasha watches him for a moment. "Then why do you do it?"

 

What's this? The Inquisition? "Does it matter?"

 

"Possibly."

 

He doesn't get much more than that; Natasha's got the whole ice queen thing going and Steve knows himself well enough to expect he'll crack sooner rather than later. "I need the money." And he's tried everything else. He gets asthma attacks stacking shelves, his vision goes fuzzy if he stares into a screen for too many hours at the time, he can't stay on his feet all day without his arthritis flaring; basically street walking's all he's good for. No one's ever asked for character references before. 

 

Something in Natasha's expression shutters a little. "Right." When she stands, it's not to straddle his hips or drag him to bed. "Couch is yours if you want to stay the night." She plucks another fifty dollars out of her wallet and lays it on the coffee table. "Might be another cash prize at the end."

 

"I don't," Steve starts to say. He's not an idiot; a john doesn't spend upwards of a hundred bucks to give you a bed for the night. Natasha's pretty and distracting in her silky black robe, but she's not so distracting he's forgetting basic common sense. 

 

"If you want to leave," Natasha tells him, "door's right there. You can probably make the last train back to your neighborhood if you hurry." She takes the wallet with her when she disappears down the hall. Doesn't ask him to join her. 

 

Anxiety drops like a stone into Steve's belly. Bleeding hearts are one thing, but Natasha said nothing about Jesus loving him. She didn't offer to take him to a shelter. Instead, she's giving up her couch to a man she doesn't know -- a man who could well be dangerous. Steve starts to feel indignant on her behalf. She should know better. 

 

He gives it five minutes. Then fifteen. After forty-five minutes of watching infomercials, he levers to his feet and shuts off the TV. His heart's in his throat, but he knocks on the bedroom door anyway. There's only the one, which makes it easy. "Um, Natasha?" He knocks again. 

 

"Come in," her voice rings out. Maybe that's part of the fantasy. Maybe she wants someone to ravage her in her bed. Steve finds himself wishing he'd taken a hit off his inhaler, but it's too late to start fumbling for it now. He slides the door open to find Natasha on the bed, painting her toenails. The bedside lamp throws off a warm glow. "What's up?" It's so casual that Steve starts to wonder if he missed a step. 

 

"When I said... when I said I needed the money," he blurts out, "I meant I'd like to earn it." And with that, he tugs his faded Ramones t-shirt over his head and kicks off his shoes. He can't help the flush that creeps down his skinny chest. Can't help that he's skinny, either. 

 

At least Natasha doesn't laugh him out of the room. 

 

It takes her a moment to come to a decision, but eventually she slides the miniature pot of nail polish to the bedside table and crooks a finger. Steve follows dumbly. His knees don't quite buckle when she palms him through his pants, but it's a close thing. "I don't fuck like most girls. And I'm not going to pay you for it."

 

"You--"  _already did_ , Steve starts to say. He's cut off by the hard clasp of fingers on his denim-covered dick.

 

Natasha holds his gaze. "I paid for your company. Your body's another story."

 

 _Oh_. Of course, Steve thinks. That makes sense. He wouldn't pay to sleep with himself, either. He might not understand exactly what Natasha gets out of making him eat dinner and crash on her couch, but he's had clients ask for stranger things. Not everyone's into having a quickie. Most of the time, he's okay with that; most of his clients don't arouse him half as much as Natasha. Her robe has slid down one arm and Steve can make out a faint, rosy scar just over her left breast. She's still wearing that silver chain. 

 

Steve fills his lungs with breath, wishing he had the nerve to just reach out and touch her. He doesn't, so he ends up saying: "I could pay you back. If you let me -- you know. I could pay you back." It takes him a moment to realize that could be misconstrued as implying Natasha is somehow easy, or that she'd take money to sleep with someone. Or worse, that she's in any way like him. 

 

Her hand strokes up Steve's quivering stomach, nails raking over goose prickled skin. "Take off the rest."

 

Steve may look young, but he's no novice; he's had clients who wanted to boss him around before. It's not a big deal. He can usually just close his eyes and think about which bills he's going to pay first with the cash he's raking in. If anything, there's less work involved in playing someone's sex toy. 

 

There's no playing here, though, as he shimmies out of his jeans and kicks off his shoes. Natasha looks on. Steve's cock hardens in his boxers at the expectant tilt of her head. He has a feeling that Natasha doesn't often repeat herself, so he doffs his boxers along with the rest of his clothes and ends up standing stark naked by the bed. A shiver arcs up his spine. He knows he's not much to look at, but he's really hoping that she won't notice the shaky stitching on his socks. (He's never actually wanted to impress a client before.)

 

His knees all but buckle when she fists his cock. Precome slicks the tip and he'd be embarrassed, except he hasn't had a woman touch him in so long and Natasha's far from hesitant. She touches her lips to his cock without preamble. It's -- it's hot. Steve presses his nails into his palms until the half-moon indentations distract him from the overwhelming urge to push forward. 

 

"Can I sit?" he chokes, flushing warm. Natasha huffs out a breath against his dick; it might be laughter. She could be laughing at him. Steve doesn't fault her for it. 

 

He's grateful to kneel down, his joints creaking pitifully, because it puts him at eye-level with Natasha. He sees her lick spit-slick lips and knows she's tasting him. Makes a note to remind her he needs to wear a condom if she's going to be doing that again. (God, he hopes she's going to be doing that again.) Natasha hooks a hand behind his neck and reels him in so fast Steve thinks he's about to get a nosebleed. She stops just short of brushing her lips against his. "Do you want me to kiss you?"   
  
"Yes."

 

"Prove it," she breathes and tugs him flush against her, his thighs splaying over hers, his fingers clutching at her shoulders for balance. 

 

She puts the onus of responsibility for the kiss entirely on Steve and he strives to make it good. He knows all the tricks -- courtesy of so much practice -- and he licks carefully into her mouth, waiting until she begins to respond to take more of an active role. His job is to coax a reaction from his clients, that's all. They usually take the lead. Natasha, though pretty and warm, her nipples hard against his ribcage, is no exception. 

 

Steve tries to shift them. He can't touch her sex, not like this, and he wants to make her feel good, too. Needs to give her that. 

 

Natasha takes him by the scruff, aborting all attempt as she bites at his throat. "Stop fidgeting," she warns, "or you'll pop before we get to the fun bit."

 

"There's more?" Steve asks, mind reeling. She's not wrong about the rest; he's close, that's true, and he's frantically trying to give her even a fraction of the pleasure he feels before he loses himself. (He doesn't like letting people down; that's got nothing to do with the job, though it's pretty bad policy to leave a guy hanging after he's paid for his orgasm.) He focuses on the sound of Natasha's warm laugh, the sharp edge of her teeth at his collarbones. Every time she inhales, the swell over her breasts brushes Steve's cock. He wants to beg for her hand, her mouth -- anything. 

 

Is that the game? Steve drops a hand to the sheets, propping himself up even though he knows Natasha won't drop him. She's strong. She's got biceps of steel and her fingers are steady at his waist. Steve swallows a breath, tries to get his thoughts in order. She doesn't strike him as the type to go for mind games, but what does Steve know?  _Always were a sucker for a pretty face_ , Bucky told him once, and Natasha's is a picture. 

 

Her lips capture his before Steve can offer some half-baked plea. ("Please let me come, sir," is as rote as telling his johns what big dicks they've got.) 

 

Natasha sure can kiss. She keeps it up long enough that Steve starts to feel like his lungs are burning. He doesn't even realize it, at first, but then Natasha is slowly lowering him to the bed and everything is soft sheets, silk robe and the warmth of skin against his. Steve thinks about Animal Planet specials on lionesses in the wild; he feels a little bit like the slowest antelope at the watering hole -- minus the fear. He's not afraid of her. ( _Stupid, stupid._ )

 

"I can get you off with my mouth," Natasha offers, "or with my hand. But if you're up for trying something a little more... out there, I can do that, too. I promise you'll enjoy it."

 

Steve feels his breath catch. "How out there is 'out there'?" 

 

She could just keep kissing him until he says yes, no doubt, but Natasha sinks back on her haunches, stroking the V of his splayed thighs with an almost absent-minded touch. "I've got a strap-on. Have you ever used one before?" 

 

In the strict sense of the word, no, but Steve's taken enough dicks inside him to be familiar with the sensation. He swallows hard. He nods. If Natasha wants to fuck him like that, he'll do it. It somehow seems important to please her. 

 

Fingers thread through his hair. "Do you want me like that?"

 

There's a hundred reasons to say no, not the leas of which is that Steve doesn't relish the thought of walking home with a sore ass whenever Natasha finally decides she's had enough of playing Good Samaritan. Steve nods again. He spreads his legs for her. Judging by her smirk, he's made the right call. 

 

It's not as strange as it used to be, this business of having fingers up his ass. If anything, it's a nice surprise when he has a client who takes the time for prep instead of just shoving his way in there.  _Her_ way, as the case may be. Natasha must notice he's already slick, but that doesn't stop her working him open with glossy fingers. She doesn't bother with a glove and he forgets to suggest one. 

 

He blames the talented hands stroking down his cock and into his ass; they make it hard to think. 

 

After all is said and done, Steve needs little encouragement. He starts screwing himself on Natasha's fingers as soon as she's breached him, eager to get past the initial discomfort and into that too-much-not-enough fullness that comes with having his prostate toyed. He's got some idea that she'll give him what he needs if he asks really, really nicely. That doesn't mean he's going to do it with words. (He's a whore, sure, but there are some things he won't beg for.)

 

A jolt of electricity skitters up his spine when Natasha adjusts her grip and presses inward with the tips of her fingers. Steve gasps. 

 

"Alright?" The query earns Natasha a shaky nod. He can't manage much more than that. She does it again and he cries out, fisting the sheets as his cock twitches in her hand. Natasha's smile is a little sharklike, a little scary, but when she bends over him to take a nipple in her mouth Steve forgets to worry about anything other than being good for her, being whatever she needs. 

 

It's a headtrip and he knows he'll regret it later, but right now the thought of going to his knees for Natasha is all-encompassing. "Please," he grits out. Doesn't dare knot fingers in her flame-red hair for fear that it'll put her off to be guided. The scrape of her tongue is sandpaper and velvet and Steve thinks he could come right there. He's glad when it doesn't last; happier still when she removes her fingers and gives them both a little respite. He can hear her rummaging in the bedside table, but he doesn't look to see what she's hunting for. It can only be one thing. 

 

Natasha's fake dick isn't as garish or as generous as he'd feared. It's just a thin shaft, black and only vaguely shaped like a real cock. His apprehension proves unwarranted. 

 

"Still up for it?" asks Natasha, stroking his ankle with an absentminded hand. "It won't hurt, I promise."

 

Steve wonders what she'd say if he told her he doesn't mind a little pain. Would it put her off? Better not to risk it. "Okay," he breathes, bringing his knees up to his chest. There's nothing he can do about his creaking joints or his syncopated breaths as he watches Natasha don her harness. There's another plastic dick inside it, he realizes, short and curved so it will penetrate Natasha's cunt as she fucks him. The thought makes his breaths short out and his insides feel all warm and funny. 

 

The sharp echo of tearing foil brings him back. Natasha has a condom rolled down the black shaft and though she really doesn't need to bother, Steve watches her slick it with a little more lube before pressing in. He's had bigger dicks with a whole lot less prep, but there's something about being pushed to his back and mounted by a woman that steals the breath from his lungs. It's overwhelming. It doesn't feel real. 

 

Steve thinks about pinching himself, but there's no way he can do it discreetly with Natasha propped up above him, her belly pressing against his rock-hard cock and the straps of the harness tickling his balls. He lets his legs circle her hips; he wants his hands free to palm her soft, warm breasts. It feels good to do it, but even better when she takes his hands away and presses them to the mattress. 

 

"Use your mouth," Natasha tells him and her cock sinks another inch into him. It's curved at the tip, Steve noticed that much, so it really shouldn't be a surprise when it brushes his prostate on the upstroke. Like hell it isn't. Steve shudders all over, eyes squeezing shut against the white-hot surge of pleasure that sparks like sunspots on his vision. 

 

He comes back to himself to the sound of Natasha saying his name; it takes him a moment to remember what he was supposed to be doing. Natasha gives him the time to figure it out and she sighs so prettily when at last Steve dips his head to suckle her nipple into his mouth. Her skin smells clean and tastes of salt and iron. He imagines her bathed in milk, like ancient queens -- or maybe blood, like the crazy countesses of old. It would be easier to give her what she wants if he had his hands free, but Natasha is strong and she doesn't move an inch. Steve discovers with some surprise that he likes her pinning him down, whatever the cost; it's just one more reason to suspect he'll end up stuffed in a dumpster somewhere, like Peggy keeps saying. 

 

Natasha fucks him slowly. She takes her sweet time working the fake dick into his body; why shouldn't she? Steve reminds himself he's not getting paid for this. That doesn't make it better or worse. It's just -- different. When she's had enough of his attentions, Natasha brings their joined hands to Steve's front and crosses his wrists over his chest. The pounding of his heart is an anxious drumming. He can't seem to catch his breath as Natasha holds his hands still with one lax fist. It doesn't occur to him to protest or try to touch her without permission. Timidity has nothing to do with it, for once. There's a steadily-building fire in his belly, warmth spreading its tendrils through his limbs like the smoke of a particularly good joint. Only instead of feeling numb, Steve is suddenly very much aware of his position and the scrape of soft skin against his cock; he knows he won't last. He doesn't want to try. 

 

"'Tasha," he bites out. "Natasha, fuck, I'm--"

 

She smirks, dropping a hand to caress his dick. "You're what?" 

 

Steve hears himself keen low in his throat, a sound that would be embarrassing if he had the space to worry. (There's not going to be a second time anyway, so what does it matter if he turns her off with his whining?) "I'm close," he chokes. "Please. I'm. You've gotta let me come."

 

That there's no ring around his cock doesn't even factor into his frantic pleas. He doesn't beg to crank her engine, either. Frankly, he doesn't know the first thing about getting a woman like Natasha off, never mind doing it as an afterthought. It just feels right to ask for her consent -- maybe because no one ever asks for his once money has exchanged hands. Or maybe it's got nothing to do with that and he just wants to do something right for a change; have one good thing that isn't tainted by his job. 

 

Natasha spits into her hand before gripping his cock. It's easily one of the hottest things Steve has ever seen. He only lasts a couple of strokes; the pressure of her tight fist and the steady pummeling of a cock in his ass is too much for his neglected libido. Steve arches, lungs burning on a shallow, half-smothered cry, and spills all over himself and Natasha's fist, painting thick white ropes all over her pristine, soft sheets. 

 

Steve has never felt more shattered, more wrung-out. He drops back down to the bed shaking like a junkie hurting for his next fix. Natasha strokes him through the last of his orgasm. She slides out of him with a lot more care than Steve thinks he could muster in her place, but he hisses at the sudden separation all the same. 

 

"I didn't," he starts, only to be silenced with a kiss. 

 

Soft curls tickle his cheek as Natasha nuzzles his temple. "You look like you've been run over by a truck. You had a good one?" She pulls back for that, searching his eyes with something approaching concern. Steve has to close his as he nods, as he feels her clean him up with a corner of the sheet. This is how he gets his heart broken; it's a recipe for disaster. 

 

"I want. I want to make it up to you," he says, once he's gotten the hang of that whole speech thing again. Natasha has already stepped out of her harness and there's no mistaking the slick that's glistening on her thighs. Tired though he may be, Steve has to return the favor.

 

Natasha nods. She doesn't ask if he's sure and Steve couldn't be more grateful. "Scoot down a little." It takes him a moment to understand what she wants, but once the penny drops, he's quick to comply. Natasha's strong thighs part around his head, her heels tucked in the warm, sweaty crevice under his arms. The smell of her arousal is intoxicating. Steve can't resist burying his mouth and nose into her cunt at the first opportunity. His spent cock twitches painfully in echo of the moan that escapes Natasha. 

 

He doesn't get to do this often and he's woefully out of practice, but Natasha doesn't seem to mind. Her fingers knot in his hair, guiding his mouth where she needs him most. It only hurts a little, in a good way. 

 

Natasha does most of the work. When she asks for "more", her fingers give a little twist in Steve's hair, forcing him to deliver. She seems to like it best when he worries her clit between his front teeth; she gushes warm when he flicks his tongue against the hardened nub, moans rising to a pitch. It's easier in some ways, because he doesn't need to think, just follow her directions and trust he's in good hands. (It shouldn't be so simple to put his faith in strangers, but it is. It is.) 

 

When she comes, Natasha does it quietly, just grinds against his tongue until he's slick and soiled and his fingers are clenching stupidly in the fleshy dip right above her thighs. 

 

"Wow," is probably a very uncool thing to say, but Steve says it anyway. He's just a little sore to feel like he's put in good work. 

 

"We can do better," Natasha tells him. Her body coils around his all warm and spent. She doesn't push him away now that they're done. 

 

Steve promises himself he'll only close his eyes for a moment; catch his breath and get out. It's good plan. It's still good when he wakes up to niggling blades of sunshine slanting through the curtains and straight into his eyes. Last night's mistake is ever-present in the ache burning in his thighs, but it still doesn't feel real. Maybe if Natasha were lying beside him, he could compute that a woman like that ever gave him the time of day. The sheets are rumpled, still warm but there's no sign of her. 

 

No crisp bills laid out on the bedside table, either. This is the first time since Steve started turning tricks that not getting paid actually registers as a relief. 

 

He finds his briefs beside the bed and tugs them on. He's not hunky enough to go around bare-chested, though, and once he's scraped his t-shirt off the floor, it seems stupid not to put on his jeans and sneakers, too, before venturing into the hallway. The protocol for mornings after the nights before escapes him. Does he just say  _thanks and see you around_? Does he ask for her number?

 

Would Natasha give it to him? She's got a car and an apartment; she looks like a freaking movie star. She could have any guy she wants, why stoop for someone like him? 

 

 _Because she did last night_ , Steve reminds himself and, emboldened, follows the scent of brewing coffee into the living room. There's definitely movement in the kitchen. He gathers his nerve -- Bucky always said he had balls -- and puts on his bestest, bravest  _nothing can go wrong_  face, hoping that last night's goodwill survived the crack of dawn. 

 

"So I don't have many talents, but I can make a mean omelet if you're--" Steve's bluster dies in his throat. 

 

Sure enough, someone is bent over the stove, having produced a frying pan from God knows where, but that someone is easily six feet tall and very blond, with fists the size of bowling balls.  _Of course_ , Steve thinks. This must be the boyfriend. 


	2. Chapter Two

Two things have just become clear to Steve. One, of course Natasha isn't going to want to see him for another round if she's got this guy at home. It's no contest; Steve looks like he needs to be anchored against sterner wind gales, while Fabio over there looks built to last. And two, Fabio is probably going to beat him to a pulp long before the question comes up. The fact that he's wearing a 'kiss the chef' apron that barely hits the tops of his thighs in no way diminishes his potential for pain and suffering. 

 

A very unmanly sound escapes Steve when the guy turns to face him. He's got tattoos, too, isn't that great? The pin-up on his right bicep looks like she's bursting out of her already generous brassiere. "I'm afraid I used up all the eggs," says the blond-faced thug. There's an accent. Steve wants to say British, but it doesn't sound quite right. Canadian, maybe? The blond squints at him. "Are you looking for Natasha?"  

 

If he says yes, does that automatically rule he should get smacked over the head for his troubles? "I. Maybe? Y-yes?"

 

"I think she's in the shower." A meaty palm is extended, but it goes in the wrong direction for a punch. "I'm Thor, by the way. Try not to laugh, my mother teaches Scandinavian Lit."

 

Laughter is far from Steve's mind right now. Somewhere between putting his hand in Thor's and expecting to get his fingers crushed, and being told to take a seat, he thinks he must find the breath to offer his own name. The thumping of his heart is almost painful. He's still waiting for the other shoe to drop when Natasha saunters out of the shower wrapped in a terrycloth towel, her red hair slick and dripping shower water. 

 

"Oh, you've met," she beams, completely aloof. "Is the coffee ready?" Thor hands her a mug that Steve knows for a fact wasn't in the cupboards last night. 

 

"Steve?"

 

It's like being wrested from a dream that should be a nightmare but is somehow too weird to be as scary as expected. "Yes?"

 

Thor waves a porcelain white mug at him. "Want any?"

 

This is how he ends up sitting on the sofa where he was invited to sleep over last night -- but didn't, because he slept in Natasha's bed instead, whatever that means -- with Natasha's bare toes lodged under his hip and Thor casually telling them about the microwave he's thinking of buying and the blender he'll get with his next paycheck as he wolfs down pancakes. It's a scene made all the more confusing by the fact that Natasha's towel has slipped down enough that Steve can see her right nipple and Thor hasn't kicked his ass yet. 

 

He thinks dwelling on it might do it, like in one of those  _The Secret_ specials on  _Oprah_ , particularly when Thor's gaze lands on him. "Pancakes aren't up to par?"

 

"No, they're... they're great." Steve's had one bite. He couldn't swallow any more. 

 

Thor frowns, his bushy, blond brows knitting together sharply. "You're not eating, though."

 

"I'm not." Short answers aren't going to make this any less weird, but they do diminish the possibility of him putting his foot in his mouth. Natasha's foot shuffles a little under his thigh, a pleasant squirming that doesn't become worrisome until she lays her foot in his lap, over his zip-fly. "Um--"

 

"Last night was great, I want to do it again sometime, you're not going to get thrown out by my beefcake boyfriend, so eat your damn breakfast before I help myself." She's already finished her own plate, eating with her fingers despite the sticky syrup. 

 

It's Thor, rather than Steve, who speaks up first: "You've got a beefcake boyfriend? When did that happen?"

 

Natasha smiles, something both knowing and indulgent in her gaze. It takes Steve's addled mind a second to catch up and realize that she's said she wants to see him again. That she enjoyed last night, maybe as much as Steve himself. He cuts a slice of pancake with his fork; it's soft and squishy and practically melts on his tongue. As if he weren't intimidating enough already, it turns out Natasha's not-boyfriend isn't a bad cook, either. 

 

Steve doesn't mean to test her patience, but it feels like he's tumbled down the rabbit hole and landed in Wonderland. Except instead of tea with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, he's doing pancakes with a tattooed metalhead and Natasha. Her Cheshire grin leaves him grasping at straws. "So... you two aren't dating?" 

 

"Not since -- what was it? Sophomore year? Junior year?" Thor shrugs. "Broke my heart."

 

"That's what you get for blowing the quarterback on prom night," Natasha shoots back, like she can't see Steve's head whipping back and forth, like she can't read his confusion. (He doubts that very much; she had his number down pat last night. She knows what she's doing.) 

 

It takes Steve a moment to read between the lines. Thor. Blowing the quarterback. Thor is gay. Thor isn't Natasha's boyfriend. More importantly, Steve is not about to get his ass kicked for breathing in her general vicinity, never mind sleeping with her last night. It shouldn't feel like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders, but it does. Even the mere ghost of physical violence is enough to get his pulse thudding madly in his ears. 

 

Thor keeps up a steady stream of conversation all through breakfast; he doesn't ask many questions, for which Steve is grateful, but he doesn't talk about himself a lot, either. Still, Steve picks up a few vital details. For one thing, he gets that Thor is going to be living here now, which explains why he's so at home among Natasha's things. For another, Thor lets his gaze linger a little too long sometimes, like he's trying to get the measure of Steve and failing. 

 

Steve is shamefully glad when Thor goes to do the dishes and it's just him and Natasha on the couch, her toes under his leg. "I should head out," he says. Peggy will be worried. (He didn't even call last night.) 

 

"Let me get you the cash." And just like that, Natasha brings him slamming back to earth so fast his skull is still ringing as she counts off the bills. There's an actual roll of money in her cash, like something out of a gangster movie. It's a peculiar sight and yet Steve takes it. He takes it and, for some ungodly reason, he tries to stuff it into his back pocket before Thor can see. 

 

The big man catches him out as he's making his way to the door, Natasha in tow. "Hey, uh, Steve?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"You play video games?" It's not what Steve expects him to ask. It's not even a jab at his less-than-legal profession. He nods anyway because it's the truth. "Cool. You should come by sometime. Try out my Wii. If you want."

 

If he wants? What is this, a fucking charm school? "Sure," Steve tells him. "Nice meeting you." The sad thing is that it was. Blondie's stab at breakfast was pretty damn good. Maybe he only looks like the guys who used to try to punch Steve's nose in for fun.

 

Natasha squeezes his shoulder. "Don't be a stranger."

 

"I won't." There's two hundred bucks in his pocket and all he had to do was sleep with a pretty girl. Paydays like that don't come around often. Steve doesn't bother reminding himself that there's no correlation between the two: Natasha picked him off the streets. She knows what he is. 

 

And now that he's seen the kind of guy she has living in her apartment, Steve can't believe last night was more than a fluke. He takes the subway home. It's too early for crowds; he gets a car nearly all to himself and watches his breath fog the grimy windows. He doesn't think about how warm he felt, sleeping in Natasha's bed. 

 

***

 

He runs into Peggy right outside her front door. She's still wearing her scrubs under a black trench coat; must've just gotten off work. There was a time when Steve used to keep track of her shifts, try to work around them so she wouldn't know when he was out on the streets. He'd worried for a while that she'd hate him for it. (The truth is that Peggy doesn't have any strong feelings, as far as he's concerned.) He makes himself smile blithely. "Hey."

 

"Hey yourself." A pissed off Peggy usually gives him the cold shoulder. This one just looks tired. "Heading out?"

 

"Yeah," Steve says. 

 

Peggy doesn't stop him. She doesn't even scoff. "Okay." Her key slides into the lock, three latches unlocking slowly, one after the other. "I didn't hear you come back last night." The walls are paper-thin and there's not a lot his neighbors don't know about Steve. He was able to pretend he was a student taking evening classes for a while, but that was before Bucky, before -- 

 

"I was out," he tells her, deliberately oblique. He can't tell her about Natasha or her non-boyfriend, not when he's about to head out for an evening on anonymous sex-for-cash. But enough about him: "Bad day at the office?" 

 

That earns him a sharp, mirthless laugh. Peggy shoulders her door open. "I'm still waiting to get used to losing patients. Think it'll happen soon?" Steve doesn't know what to tell her. He never does and there are times when he can't help feel like their friendship is the most uneven in history. It's no better when Peggy turns to look at him, all weary and beaten down. "They're saying it might freeze tonight. Don't stay up too late."

 

Steve nods. Says, "I won't," like packing on the lies means they're any less unkind. The two hundred under his mattress should go a long way towards paying up his bills, but there's next month to think of and the month after that. There's the fact that his inhaler needs replacing and he hasn't had a hot shower in forever. 

 

He has to work and right now, this is the best he can do. He tries not to look for Natasha's Ford as he takes his usual spot on the sidewalk. 

 

The usual crowd seems absent. Steve tries to be happy about that: it means less competition, better chance of roping half a dozen clients before he gets frostbite. Peggy was right about the weather; his breath fogs the air, shivers ramping up as soon as he stops walking. He can't help that he's wearing a t-shirt about two sizes too small or that his jeans are pocked with holes. This is the uniform; Peggy wears green scrubs and latex gloves, he gets skimpy outfits and glitter. 

 

A pickup stops for him, but Steve doesn't take the client. Too broad, too blond -- too much like Thor. He ignores the jeering that follows. 

 

He makes eyes at an office monkey, tries to coax him into the shadows between bouts of coughing. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work so well. He gives it until eleven before calling it a night. He'll be back tomorrow. It's fine. It's for the best. 

 

Peggy lets him in without question. She tells him about her day when he asks and even splurges for pizza. They don't talk about why he's not at his post; it wasn't so long ago that she would've taken it as a sign that he's ready to mend his ways. Peggy knows better now. (Steve tells himself he doesn't feel like he's letting her down.)

 

"I forgot to ask," he says, in the doorway of her cubbyhole apartment, "did you decide what you were gonna tell Rhodes?" 

 

 _Doctor_ Rhodes, as Peggy insists on calling him, has been asking her out for the past year. His last attempt involved balloons stuck into her locker and flowers delivered to the nurses' station. It's a miracle Peggy hasn't complained to HR yet. 

 

Or maybe not so much: Her lips tip up at the corners, pale cheeks flushing a little as she walks Steve out. "We're having coffee on Saturday."

 

It's not a surprise. Peggy's a good looking woman and she's smart and she's capable -- and there's no other man in her life. Steve still has to stomp down a sudden, desperate  _no_. As if he could ever compete with a cardiologist. She'll be happier with Rhodes and he'll be -- he'll go on being her friend. "I'm happy for you," Steve says and hopes his expression gives nothing away when Peggy's eyes flash to meet his. She pecks his cheek; he must have done something right. 

 

The next time Steve goes out, he takes the first john that shows an interest. Twenty bucks for a handjob while the guy calls him a whore and a slut is practically a walk in the park. He scrubs clean in a KFC restroom afterwards, then stops for chicken wings. He does two more that night: a blowjob and a client who pays up front but loses his nerve halfway through. Steve doesn't bother chasing him down to pay back the difference. 

 

He falls into a routine and it works for him, if only for a couple of days. Saturday's just around the corner when he spies Natasha's car rolling slowly down the street. He has just enough time to duck into the shadows before she draws up level with him. Other hustlers swarm what they see as an easy target, carrion on a corpse, but Natasha doesn't stop for them. She doesn't stop for Steve, either. 

 

Even after the Ford has disappeared around the block, Steve's heart still beats a frantic tattoo. 

 

"You okay, sugar?" asks one of his brothers in misery, a painted youth with lush lips. "You're looking a bit peaky."

 

Steve fumbles for his inhaler, though this isn't an asthma attack by a long shot. He really doesn't have an answer; he should be chomping at the bit to see Natasha again, never mind go to bed with her. But what if she's changed her mind and decided he didn't do enough for the money she paid him? What if she only invited him to come back to the apartment as a way to get some return on her investment?

 

It's plausible. Why else would she be back here?

 

He battles a serious bout of nerves on the way to Natasha's brownstone; the Ford is parked out front when he gets there and there's light in the windows. Thor gets the door, smile wide and pleased for reasons passing understanding. He clamps a warm, heavy hand to Steve's shoulder to steer him in. That makes it easier to step inside, to smile and say "Does the Wii invitation still stand?" like he really came here to play video games. 

 

Thor couldn't look happier. "Of course. Let me get the snacks." Steve finds himself thinking that Thor is like a weird cross between doting mother hen and pro wrestler when he catches sight of Natasha perched on the coffee table, doing her nails. _Talk about people who are hard to pin down..._

 

"Just in time," Natasha drawls, "he won't shut up about it." She hands him a beer off the table, all cool charm and blood red fingertips. Their hands brush in the exchange, a fifty lodged between them. Something knowing lingers in Natasha's gaze as she makes her escape: "I'll leave you boys to it."

 

Steve gets it then. Natasha can't have come looking for him tonight because she wanted another go -- he's not that good of a lay, honestly. If anything, she came because Thor wants his turn on the village bicycle. Steve can handle that. He'll just have to find some way to make a detour by the bathroom at some point and prep himself real quick in there. He'll be fine.

 

Thor gets killed twice in almost as many minutes, but his booming laugh only startles Steve the first time around. After that, Steve starts hanging back, intentionally sending Luigi tumbling off cliffs so Thor can jump ahead. It makes getting through a level slower than a tortoise race, but that's alright. Steve isn't here to win anyway. He helps himself to Cheetos and some of the sour onion crackers before he realizes his breath's going to stink. He washes down the junk food with Dr. Pepper.

 

It's coming up on two AM by the time Thor finally gets them through a level. They defeat Bowser. In celebration, Thor clasps him around the shoulders, squeezing him to his massive chest. Steve's been feeling tired for a while, but that brings him up short. He senses an opening when Thor pulls back a little, beaming at Steve like he won the lottery, and he takes it.

 

He'd be a fool not to. Sure, Steve's done a lot of things with guys, and some of them were more enjoyable than others, but he's kissed only a handful. Most of his clients don't want a whore's mouth on theirs, though they don't mind it on other parts of their bodies.

 

He's sure he's done it wrong, though, because Thor flinches a little, ducking out of reach until it's impossible for Steve to follow. He's perched over Thor, half in his lap and he can't jerk out of Thor's reach as quickly as he'd like because one leg's fallen asleep under him.

 

His heart leaps into his throat. Did he misread the signs? Thor's been looking at him all evening, eyes crinkling as he grinned, and Steve had a feeling he was being flirted with a couple of times. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe this is the part where Thor punches his nose in for daring to imply he might be a fairy.

 

Steve almost doesn't notice it at first, but Thor's free hand is desperately, awkwardly grappling with the controller. He's saving the game. You've gotta be kidding me.

 

At least Thor has the good grace to look chastened when he's done. Both of his massive, wrecking ball fists clasp around Steve's waist and if Steve thought he was trapped before, getting hauled into Thor's lap like a stripper is enough to give him a head rush. He knows how to do this. His legs land on either side of Thor's, body undulating forward without having to be guided. He really shouldn’t get a thrill every time Thor's breaths catch audibly in his throat. It's not that unusual.

 

Thor only needs a few minutes to get his hands on Steve's hips. He's strangely polite about it; doesn't go for the ass, doesn't knead his cheeks like he's trying to rend the flesh. There might not be any new bruises on Steve come tomorrow. The thought is unsettling; he needs Thor to mark him, so Natasha will see. Otherwise they have to do it out here and Steve forgot all about getting himself prepped, he's going to hurt--

 

Fingers knot in his hair and Thor's silence breaks under a flood of nonsensical, vaguely appreciative moans: "Fuck, baby. Oh, that feels good. Keep doing that."

 

Steve flicks the lobe of his ear with his tongue again, is rewarded with a sharp, jostling thrust of hips against his. He can feel Thor's erection through wash-soft denim. It's not easily ignored. "I can do other things," Steve purrs in his best phone-sex voice, "with my mouth."

 

"Y-yeah?" Thor pants. He steals another kiss, the bristles of his beard rough against Steve's chin.

 

"Mhm." Telling and showing are two different things. Steve can cope better with the latter; it's not as fake. All he needs is a fortifying breath before he gathers the nerve to sink a hand between their bodies and stroke his fingers over the bulge tenting Thor's jeans. There's no coming back from this. If he stops now, Thor'll call him a prick tease and a bitch. That's in the best case scenario.

 

He doesn't stop. Thor's fly unzips quickly under skilled fingers and it's a quick plunge of fingers under grey cotton underwear after that before he gets to touch skin. A muscle in Thor's ridiculously flat belly jumps when Steve's knuckles brush his cock. Thor laughs, so Steve smiles a little, too, and tries to pretend he didn't just cower.

 

"You don't waste any time, do you?" Thor sucks in a breath. "Fuck me..." Like that's ever going to happen.

 

Thor's prick is longer than most Steve's taken in the past. He only notices when his fist begins to slide down the length of him and keeps going at least three inches more than Steve was expecting. He balks a little. If he thought it was going to hurt before, now he's sure of it.

 

"I want to go to my knees," Steve tells him and then goes and makes it into a plea, just in case Thor has other ideas: "Let me go to my knees for you. C'mon." Most johns like it when he begs for their big dicks; Steve can only imagine their faces if they ever saw Thor. His own must be a picture because Thor keeps rubbing his forearm, his cheek, whatever parts of Steve he can reach. He's all touchy-feely. That doesn't bode well.

 

Neither does the sudden clasp of fingers around his shoulders. "Wait. I've got condoms—"

 

Peggy's warned him about taking stupid risks just like she's warned him about doing this kind of work in the first place, but once after one of their rare, spirited arguments, Peggy also agreed that oral sex is a lower risk activity. Steve knows full well that she didn't meant it as encouragement to blow guys without a condom, but needs must and he needs, so he must.

 

"I don't like sucking latex." That's a lie, but maybe if he can get Thor to come down his throat, that'll be enough. Job done. Guys like Thor often have a thing about marking their territory; Steve tends to blame it on apes and evolution. He pushes the thought out of his mind, grips Thor in a tight fist. He's thick, too, which makes the thought of deep throating him seem more and more like a fantasy.

 

Steve knows he has to try it anyway, shouldering Thor's thighs open and ducking his head like he's done a hundred times already. It's just another cock, Thor is just another john; doesn't matter that he whimpers and moans pretty when Steve strokes his dick or that his eyes squeeze shut like he can't stand to see and feel Steve's mouth on him all at the same time.

 

He tastes salty, but not -- bad. Steve doesn't have to go to any lengths to make the experience tolerable on himself. (He doesn't often have to pretend his cock isn't hard in his jeans; now is one of those times.) He's done this often enough that he knows how to make it good. His tongue traces the vein all along the underside, flicks lightly against the tip. He doesn't give every trick away from the start; it's much better to build up, one hand working down the length of the shaft for what he can't otherwise reach.

 

Thor seems to like it best when Steve pulls a little on his balls, so he tries to do that with some semblance of rhythm, rolling his palm from Thor's scrotum to the crease of his leg. He doesn't let his fingers dip too far back, despite the slight tilt of Thor's hips. Ass play freaks some guys out in a way that getting their dick sucked and rubbed by another man doesn't. Steve's learned that the hard way. He keeps on task. He tries to make it easy on Thor to imagine himself with a pretty girl—or guy, whatever works for him—but still it's very hard to be neat about a blowjob. The awkward, vulgar sound of his harried breaths can't be helped. He tries to keep the wet slurping to a minimum, but even that's a bust. It's a one-sided effort, anyway; Thor moans unabashedly, like he's forgotten all about Natasha in the other room.

 

Steve's good with his mouth, but he's not so good that he blots out the thought of Natasha from anyone's mind.

 

Fingers dig into the couch cushions. Steve's glad and not; he hates admitting it, but sometimes and with the right partner, he likes the hair-pulling. He's less thrilled about choking on dick, though it's easier to handle when someone's thrusting up and into his mouth, forcing him to take it. It's too much to hope that Thor's going to be that callous. He seems happy just to let Steve lick and kiss at his cock like they've got all the time in the world, like he's not leaking precome all over himself; the one time he bothers to touch Steve's hair, it's to cup the back of his neck and stroke lightly into the tense muscle.

 

It's too much. Steve shakes off the touch, rising up on his knees. It'd be easier if Thor was standing, he'd have a better angle, but fuck it. He swallows once, twice, and then lets his throat relax as he sinks down onto Thor's hard length.

 

"Oh, God--" Thor's fingers knot in his hair, desperate for an anchor. They spur him on.

 

Steve ignores his gag reflex, the need to suck in a breath; he takes him in, inch by inch, careful to keep his teeth out of the way. If Thor were to thrust up just a little, he’d be in to the hilt, Steve's nose pressed into blond curls. Steve wills it to happen with both hands on Thor's hips, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise.

 

It's no use. Steve chokes. He staggers a little as he pulls off, a wet, gasping cough building up in the back of his throat. At least he manages to get Thor's cock out of his mouth before he bites down; that shit would earn him a beating. It's happened before.

 

Beatings might not be Thor's fare, though. "You okay? Steve?" He's flushed pink down to the roots of his wheat-yellow hair, but when Steve looks up, it's to see him tilting forward. He doesn't resist when he gets tugged up by a pair of bulging arms. He'd be a fool to try. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Thor keeps saying. "You feeling okay? I should've told you to stop, right? I'm really sorry. You were awesome, though. For real. How'd you even do that, mate?" He nuzzles Steve's cheek and kisses his temple like he doesn't give a shit about the onion chips Steve had earlier or the fact that Steve's mouth was recently on his cock.

 

When he kisses him, Steve gets his confirmation. He hates that he relaxes a little. As big and jovial as Thor is, he's not supposed to become comforting. Steve knows better. It's why he shakes his head when Thor offers to return the favor. There's nothing he can do about the hand that comes to rub him through his skinny jeans, searing in its efforts.

 

"Okay." Steve doesn't expect it, but Thor's blue eyes honest to God light up. He's got an ace up his sleeve: "You want to, uh... you want to fuck?"

 

Steve really, really doesn't. "Sure," he says, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into his voice. Thor's fingers keep finding their way to the small of his back, under his shirt, and it's stupidly distracting. He manages enough focus to ask, "uh, here?" like the location actually matters.

 

"Lube's in my room," Thor says, petting lightly at his hip. "And I'd really love to get you out of those clothes first. I mean, we don't have to, but--"

 

Too many options. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. "I have lube." On him, at all times. It's less about being prepared and more about keeping himself loose between clients. "Hang on—" He has to crawl out of Thor's lap to get it, fingers fumbling in the folds of a too-big leather jacket that's not even his, that used to belong to-- "Got it." He liberates a condom, too, as if there's even a small chance he's not on his way towards becoming a statistic.

 

He turns around just in time to see Thor peel off his shirt and kick his pants off the rest of the way. His hair's a shaggy mess, but he looks -- he looks good like this. It makes Steve uncomfortable to admit it, and not just because he can see his still-hard dick in all its glory as Thor covers the distance between them. The touch of a hand against his cheek is disturbingly comforting. He doesn't want to tilt back his head or let Thor kiss him like a lover. He does it anyway.

 

They end up on the couch again, Steve's efforts to think himself elsewhere rebuffed every time Thor reaches up to stroke his hair or press their foreheads together as he sucks in a shaky breath. Control is a distant figment of imagination. Steve can't grasp it. He can't reach for balance or steady himself against the cushions. He thinks he's about to start hyperventilating when Thor stammers out, "Do you want to—I can prep myself. Would you watch?"

 

 _It's possible_ , Steve thinks, _that I'm having a nervous breakdown_. Nothing else seems likely.

                                                                               

"Steve?" Thor's smile is tentative, apprehensive.

 

"I thought... You want me to fuck you?"

 

Thor nods. No one ever asks Steve for that. Sure, the odd, adventurous john will ask for a finger up his ass while they're fucking into Steve's mouth, but that's not the same thing. No one wants to bend over for a hundred pound asthmatic who's as likely to keel over as he is to get them off.

 

But Thor's looking at him like he means it, so Steve slicks up his fingers and lets him roll over, knees braced against the couch and his hand pillowed under his head. Tries not to think about what he's doing or how it feels to work even a single digit into the tight clutch of Thor's body. The guttural moan that escapes Thor is enough to make it impossible to wish himself elsewhere.

 

He sounds like he's enjoying it. He sounds—good.

 

Steve feels himself flush. "Okay?" he murmurs. "Thor, is it—"

 

"Yeah," Thor chokes out, a laugh huffing out of his lungs. "Keep going. C'mon, don't be shy."

 

The taste of him lingers on Steve's tongue. There should have been more where that came from, instead here he is, straddling Thor's legs and loosening him with his fingers, too afraid to breathe because the moment could shatter and take him down with it. He already feels like he's hanging on by the skin of his teeth, his cock hard to the point of aching, his breaths syncopated as he finally, finally leans over Thor and slips inside, latex sheath and all. It's hotter than porn, than rubbing one out in the shower.

 

Steve fits his hands to Thor's hips in an effort to steady himself, but there's no resistance, only the soft give of a body that should be mounting his instead. He shudders, bowing his head to kiss the wing of Thor's shoulder. He's brawny everywhere, even here, but he sighs so prettily when Steve bottoms out.

 

"Okay?" He has to ask. He's going to keep asking until this starts being normal. (So, really, he'll never shut up again.) Thor mumbles something into his forearm. It could be important. "What—I don't, what did you say?"

 

"Please move," Thor growls. It's just loaded enough that Steve doesn't think twice about denying him.

 

He's glad that he hasn't done this a lot; means there's not a lot to compare it with. He can just enjoy the way Thor squeezes tight around him, all heat and soft flesh, and a hand at his hip to guide his own. That's right. Thor wants him to move. He asked to be fucked. Steve can do that.

 

He rights himself with a shudder, gritting his teeth against the urge to come right then and there. Thor looks like a vision, a demigod fallen from Valhalla or something, and he breathes out nice and long when Steve withdraws a fraction only to slam back in again.

 

"I won't last," Steve warns eventually. Can't even bring himself to feel any guilt; it's going to happen whether he tries to play it cool or not.

 

Thor swears. "Do it," he begs. At first Steve thinks he might mean _fuck me like I told you_ , but that's not likely, so Thor really shouldn't be getting his hopes up.

 

That's not what he's asking.

 

"Do—do what?" Steve chokes, licking suddenly dry lips. "You want me to come inside you? Is—is that it? Want me to get off while you--while you touch yourself?"

 

It's like someone set off a firework in Thor's skin. The way he bucks and shudders. The way his shoulders go taut with tension. It takes Steve a second to realize he was jerking himself off with one hand and then it's too late to think anything at all. Thor's muscles clench around him, vise tight and there's no resisting the pull of orgasm.

 

Steve falls, gasping, over the edge.

 

They've made a mess of the couch and each other, but when Steve makes to sit up and dispose of the condom, Thor only wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him down. He can feel something slick beneath him, knows it's come and possibly lubricant. Definitely sweat. They'll need to clean up the couch before Natasha wakes up.

 

"That was," Thor pants between harried breaths, "awesome."

 

A giddy quiver of something—foreign and unwanted, completely misplaced—takes root in Steve's belly, right under his diaphragm. He can't help but lean into Thor's cumbersome, sweaty hold. Sometimes it feels nice to be held. And kissed. And told he's really hot—particularly if the man doing the telling is all heavy-lidded eyes and a lazy smile.

 

Thor looks drunk, so it's no wonder he's talking absolute nonsense. Steve decides not to take it to heart. He's too exhausted to move so he lies there beside Thor and waits for the other shoe to drop.

 

He's still waiting as he showers off the remnants of lube and come from his body, as he rinses his mouth in the sink. He still doesn't know what to say when he looks up to find Natasha in her silk robe, standing in the doorway. _Mission accomplished_ somehow sounds unfair.

 

Because he's a coward and tongue-tied around girls—even the ones who've fucked him almost literally into the mattress—he leaves it to Natasha to break the silence.

 

"Are you coming to bed?" she asks, looking only a little annoyed he hasn't done it already.

 

"I—um." _Am I supposed to?_ Steve balks a little. "What about Thor?"

 

"He'll want the shower." Natasha says nothing about taking him to bed instead of Steve. She doesn't ask how it was, either. Steve's cheeks still feel hot as he trails after her into the bedroom; there's no helping that.

 


	3. Chapter Three

On Saturday afternoon, Peggy catches him on his way in for the first time in ages; she's gussied up and wearing a green men's shirt with a skinny tie. Her overcoat is so straight it looks a bit like a dress uniform. Steve hasn't seen her put so much effort into what she looks like – which is beautiful all the time, duh – in months. Gone are the ER scrubs just lightly spattered with blood or vomit: one or the other, depending on the day she's had, but sometimes both. There's not a hairclip or scrunchie in sight. She's even wearing lipstick.

 

"You were out all night," Peggy says and though it's not a question, by God, Steve still wants to answer it with a lie.

 

He doesn't bother trying. "Wasn't working." A yawn forces its way out of his throat despite the long hours spent in Natasha's bed, literally  _just_ sleeping with her. "You're going out?"

 

"Yes. I have that thing. The date." Peggy looks a little sheepish talking about it. She would be; Steve has been hanging around so long she'd have to be totally oblivious not to know how he feels about her.

 

Which is to say, _happy_. He's happy. He just forgot. "Oh. Right. The irresistible Doctor Rhodes..."

 

Peggy rolls her eyes. "I'm going to tell him you said that. He'll be flattered." Steve doubts that very much, but he lets it slide. He's never seen Peggy so nervous before. She's one step away from biting at her fingernails with rouged lips. (Peggy owns lipstick. That's enough to throw him for a loop.) "Come have coffee with me," she says and her fingers wrap around his elbow. There's a bruise there, obscured by the worn leather jacket and not, for once, the work of a client; her affection is a pressure he can bear. "Jim won't be here for another twenty minutes."

 

"How do you know?" It's not a cowardly _no, I can't, I just want to grab a shower and sleep for the rest of the weekend_ , but neither is it a yes. He's still getting used to Doctor Rhodes being a thing after a full year of Peggy talking about him like he was the grit under her shoes. 

 

"He called ahead. He's very punctual."

 

Steve wonders if that's a dig at the weird hours he keeps. He's not the most reliable guy, yet somehow he can't bring himself to believe Peggy would hold that against him. She's not petty; she's his best friend -- his only friend, these days. "Okay," Steve sighs, folding into a booth. Peggy sits primly on the other side, two steaming mugs arranged equidistantly between them. "Why are you so nervous?"

 

"Who says I'm nervous?" Peggy is a master scoffer, but even she can't keep a straight face. She hasn't stopped drumming her fingernails on the chipped Formica table since they sat down. 

 

"You know he likes you, all the effort he's put in..." 

 

It's meant as a compliment, but it doesn't land like one should: "He likes everyone," Peggy says offhandedly. "Flirts with all the nurses."

 

"Maybe it's a Machiavellian thing. Statistically speaking, with all those skipping hearts, one's bound to give out sooner or later."

 

Something catches in his voice. No wonder Peggy frowns at him. "Okay. That's a little morbid. Are you okay?" _Perils of having friends who know you well_ , Steve thinks a little bitterly. Peggy's got this way of getting under his skin that's simultaneously aggravating and awfully welcome. It makes Steve feel like someone gives a shit if he lives or dies -- and that's rare for people his line of work -- but it also makes it hard not to feel like he's always on the brink of disappointing Peggy, especially when she's looking at him with soft eyes and pursed lips, visibly readying herself for bad news. Her hands on the table look cold. Steve wishes he could cover them with his own, maybe give her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

 

"I think I met someone," he blurts out instead, and it's close enough to bad news that he's not surprised to hear Peggy suck in a breath. The truth will out. It doesn't make him feel any better to have said it aloud. There's more, but he leaves the rest lie quiet for fear of ruining Peggy's date.

 

Of all the things Peggy could say, a gossipy "Girl someone? Boy someone?" is the last thing Steve expects. He tells her it's a girl. Doesn't give any names, but he talks about how she's pretty and kind of aloof, but not in a bad way, and how Steve spent last night at her place. "That's great," Peggy beams, enthusiastic. (This is how friends are supposed to behave with one another. That awful clutch in Steve's chest every time Peggy mentions her doctor friend belongs to some other, weaker sentiment. He'll sever it someday.)

 

Peggy gives his ankle a little nudge under the table, rousing him from thought. "So, why the long face? You're not worried she won't be okay with what you do for a living, are you? Because if she likes you, Steve—"

 

He shakes his head before she can finish. "She knows." He gives Peggy the edited, PG-13 version of their first meeting; tells her about how Natasha took him up to her apartment and made him eat dinner. Money exchanged hands, yes, but she won't pay him for sex. That's up to him. It should be a point in her favor, but when Steve glances up, it's only to discover that Peggy's lips are suddenly pinched tight with censure. She disapproves of this turn of events. Steve can only imagine how she'd react if she knew about the rest, about Thor and the things they did together. The things he plans to do again. 

 

"Is that where you were last night?" Peggy asks and takes his nod with a long-suffering exhale. "Steve, are you being... you know. Safe?"

 

They've had _the talk_. With Peggy spending as much time as she does in the trenches of the ER ward, it was inevitable that she'd want to remind him of the risks inherent to his chosen profession. But this time it feels different. She's not asking about condoms and STIs. She's also looking at him strangely across the table. 

 

"Sure." Steve reaches for his mug, the best shield he's got. The coffee scalds his lips. "Yeah. Yes." Last night he had a giant of a man bend over for him, his pretty eyes screwed shut to savor the slick slide of Steve's cock into his ass. He slept with a woman he knows nothing about, other than what he's gleaned from snippets of conversation and built up in his head. He's as safe as he'll ever be, barring the discovery of skeletons in their closet – which isn't impossible, just unlikely. He doesn't think Natasha is one for mementos.

 

Peggy doesn't look convinced. She starts to say something more, but there's a shadow suddenly spread over their table and words seem to fizzle out on her tongue. 

 

"Hi." Rhodes turns out to be pretty much the guy Steve imagined he'd be. He's got the tall, charming thing going and his teeth are all even. He hasn't brought Peggy flowers, something he points out before Steve can decide if he should dock a mark. "I always think it must be weird for a girl to be wandering around with a bouquet. So. How do you feel about chocolates? I mean we can always donate them to street urchins if—" Peggy takes the box before he can finish.

 

"Steve, Jim. Jim, Steve," she introduces, vaguely waving a hand. "Make nice with each other while I get to know my new boyfriends over here." It's nice to see her eyes sparkle. She deserves this, the Swiss chocolate and the considerate boyfriend both. 

 

Jim puts out a hand. "You must be the best friend."

 

 _Must be?_  "Um. Yeah." _Best friend_ is not, contrary to what some people may think, a step below _significant other_. At least Steve refuses to think that way. "How do you--"

 

"Peggy talks about you all the time," says the notorious doctor. Peggy scoots across the vinyl, making room for Jim, and Steve catches her looking his way. A thin smile creeps to her lips, just this side of wary. It should be awkward. Steve is the obvious third wheel on their first date and he's been nursing a crush for Peggy for a long time. It should be uncomfortable. But Jim doesn't look like he minds the company and Peggy is drinking her coffee with an air of studied nonchalance. 

 

"She talks about you, too," Steve admits after a pause too length to be natural. It's not betraying her confidence if she's sitting right there, privy to their conversation. 

 

He expects Jim to preen at the news -- and he does grin a little, obviously pleased to discover he's on Peggy's mind -- but the doctor's eye is on more important things: "Do they serve Danishes here? I'm  _dying_ for a Danish." 

 

The two of them must have other plans. Peggy is too nicely dressed for the coffee shop just around the corner and Jim is a hotshot cardiologist or something. They've been dancing around each other for a whole year, playing that complicated game of innuendo and overtures that Steve was always so bad at. He watches them flirt even now, their barbs stopping just short of cruel and their conspiratorial, smug smiles directed mostly at him. 

 

It's three coffees, eight sugary pastries and two hours later that they finally part -- and not for lack of trying. Steve pleads exhaustion against Jim's requests that he join them for dinner. Peggy's doctor is just being nice. Steve knows how that works. He's used to making room for other people. 

 

***

 

This is fast becoming his undoing. It's not supposed to happen. Natasha's right leg is wrapped around his hips, her fingers knotted in his hair: it's the stuff of wet dreams and guilty fantasies shared only with his right hand. Steve catches himself staring at a bead of sweat on her the inside of her elbow, charting its progress down the slope of a freckled wrist. He can feel the rest of her, but he can't see her. She likes taking him from behind. They'll have to change the sheets again, he thinks dimly. Third time this week.

 

His eyes squeeze tightly shut.

 

He tries to turn his head and kiss Natasha as he tumbles over the edge, but he can't focus enough to do it right and his joints ache; he gives up. The rush of pleasure is all-consuming. It feels good, too good, until it doesn't. Steve tries to keep it up, his fist squeezing at his cock; to pump his hips with the kind of single-minded focus he thinks he should be able to offer a woman like Natasha. He even fists his free hand in the sheets to keep from clawing at whatever part of her he can reach, for all the good it does him. His insides _ache_. He needs to bring her over with him. That's—it's what he's here for.

 

"Steve." Natasha tightens her grip on his hair. " _Steve_ ," she says and this time his eyes snap open because there's no denying that tone of voice.

 

It takes one look at Natasha (awkwardly, over his right shoulder) to wish he hadn't. He used to have excellent staying power—easy enough to learn when half the time he wasn't even aroused—but Natasha turns him inside out. She's quiet in bed. Focused. She'll tease him to full hardness some twenty minutes before she ever dons her harness and by that time, Steve would beg for a handjob. "You didn't," he starts, swallowing hard.

 

He wants to hide his face against the pillow, but Natasha won't let him. Her nipples scrape against his back as she shifts a little closer. "I didn't what?"

 

She's going to make him say it, isn't she? Steve's stomach feels hollow in the worst way. "Come. I couldn't make you come." Her strap-on is still hard inside of him, a rigid length that will never tire or desist until she pulls it out, but he knows what she sounds like when she reaches her peak. How she moves. There's no disguising it.

 

"You'll make it up to me," Natasha tells him, as if that's supposed to let him off the hook. It doesn't. Steve knows he keeps screwing this up. She _paid_ him for something he would've gladly done for free and he still can't suspend his own need for a few minutes to get her off.

 

He feels Natasha work her strap-on free of his body, cool air stealing in wherever their sweat-slick bodies cease to touch. It feels like he's being discarded.

 

"You could ask Thor." Steve swallows hard. "To join us, I mean." His cheeks feel warm at the mere suggestion, but the idea worked its way into his mind pretty quickly after that first night, when Natasha showed up just as Steve had finished with her roommate. She must want to see if she's getting her money's worth – and maybe, if Thor is with them, it'll keep Steve on track of what he's supposed to do.

 

Natasha fixes him with her unreadable gaze, stony in the face of his proposal. "Thor."

 

"Yeah. You... I thought you two had a thing." Steve rights himself, ass hurting just a little as he pushes himself up to sit and says, "Plus, I think he likes me." There's a special hell for people like him—people who lie and use others with impunity—but it's not like Steve can say _I know you know we're fucking, so let's just drop the bullshit_. Natasha probably wouldn't like to hear him put it so crassly, even if it is the truth.

 

"Next time." Her eyes are still hard when she tugs Steve in for a kiss; they only soften after he's driven her over the edge with his fingers and her cunt is clutching at his hand like she never wants to let him go.

 

Steve doesn't regret planting the seed of that idea. He waits for it to grow and he waits for Natasha to bring it up again when they're in bed together. She doesn't. Thor isn't home the next time Steve drops by and he doesn't come back until late, after Steve and Natasha have already finished. She's fallen asleep already, her back turned to Steve, but he can't follow. His heart bounds into his throat when he hears the heavy tread of footsteps outside the bedroom door. (Another boy was afraid like this, in another life. That boy is gone.) The trek to the door is a short one. Steve imagines the turn of the handle, the squeak of hinges. Thor would want his mouth, first, and the wet, graceless slurping would probably wake Natasha up.

 

He waits. The click of footsteps diminishes as Thor goes to his own room, unseen.

 

Steve doesn't breathe any easier, nor sleep for the rest of the night. In the morning, Thor makes him coffee. He smiles when Steve garbles his thank yous.

 

The next time they cross paths, Steve makes sure to smile and press up against Thor's side. He pretends the thrum of tension in his body is all anxiety. It shouldn't, but it makes things easier. Thor's thick fingers have no business being so gentle when he strokes Steve's cock, or tilts up his chin—or slipping into his hair as Steve works him to a quick and mostly satisfying release. Steve doesn't like it. He keeps fucking him anyway, because he found another fifty in the back pocket of his jeans and he knows Natasha put it there.

 

He tells himself that's the only reason.

 

As routines go, this one is far from normal. Steve will climb into Natasha's bed, let her have him however she likes—try to please her, if he can—and then, when he's satisfied her breaths have evened and she's fallen asleep, he'll pad silently down the hall and see to Thor's needs. The blond giant always welcomes him with open arms, even when he's groggy and he's too tired to get it up. Sometimes, he'll just want to hold Steve, his grip mere inches from smothering. Other times, they'll fuck under the watchful eye of comic book heroes staring down at them from the posters Thor has put up in defiance of his being a respectable, grown man with biceps thicker than Steve's thighs. Steve likes that best. He leaves the apartment exhausted and often sore, but at least he feels like he's earned his keep. (He doesn't know if they know or if they compare notes in the morning. No one tells him anything.)

 

Steve knows it's a mistake before it happens. He's not supposed to _like_ his clients, or forget himself with them. This is how guys like him end up stuffed into dumpsters.

 

It's a Friday night, six weeks almost to the day since Natasha picked him up in her Ford Mustang, when it all goes to shit.

 

The house warming party is not Natasha's idea and Thor doesn't exercise a whole lot of judicious planning when he invites half the people in the building. "I didn't actually think they'd all show," he protests when Steve finally makes his way over to the living room couch, a warrantless complaint perched on his lips. It's like hiking through the Amazon out there, except instead of trees there are party guests packed tight into the too-small apartment, more than a few spilling out into the hallway. He wasn't thrilled at the idea when Thor first told him about it, but he figured it would be just a handful of guests, none who'd notice if he and Nat disappeared into the bedroom for a while. 

 

Steve catches sight of Natasha at the other end of the room. She doesn't look pleased, but at least she's talking to people. In the six weeks since they've met, she hasn't once mentioned family or coworkers, or any friends except for Thor. (Steve isn't sure he should count; it's not like Natasha could avoid the man she's living with.) His gaze catches hers over the discordant, thick mob. The man Natasha is with catches on.

 

"Who's that?" From Steve's vantage point, the guy looks like a cross between an accountant and a harried Social Sciences teacher. He keeps rubbing the bridge of his nose; might be used to wearing glasses. Peggy used to do it when she first got her contacts.

 

Thor cranes his neck to see. "That? Oh, Banner? He lives across the hall."

 

"He does?" Steve can't think he's ever noticed him before and he does occasionally run into Natasha's neighbors on his way up. It's true that when that happens, he just tries to flatten his back to the wall and keep his head down. He doesn't want to attract attention to himself.

 

"He's Nat's friend. They met in college." Thor shrugs, giving the game controller a meaningful little shake. "You want to play a round?"

 

Not with bedlam unleashed around them, not in a million years. Steve's head is already ringing. "I'm gonna get some air." Thor doesn't stop him; Steve can't say why he thought that was likely. He sits on the front steps for want of a bench and the chill that creeps through his clothes is a welcome contrast to the comforts of Natasha's apartment.

 

"Whoever you're waiting for, she's not going to acknowledge your existence just because you're sitting around being mopey." The voice startles Steve into freezing up like a deer in the headlights, but the really scary thing is how smoothly its owner drops to the steps beside him, his fine wool suit probably wrinkling just from the faint brush with the stone.

 

Steve's job depends on his smothering any fight or flight instinct. Besides, he's never liked running from a bully. "Worked for you."

 

"I'm not acknowledging," says the man, putting up his hands. "You're in my spot."

 

What is this, third grade? Steve bristles. It's been a tough six weeks; every hour he spends with Natasha or her live-in not-really-boyfriend is an hour Steve could be working to make rent. (And yes, he's getting paid, but he could be making twice that out in the streets if he wasn't so picky about his johns; if he didn't refuse to take the ones that look like they might be into weird stuff.) He's constantly walking on eggshells, afraid to disrupt the status quo and even more afraid Natasha will just get bored of slumming it one day. What will he do when she cuts him loose? Go back to the streets full time? He shudders at the thought; he'd miss Natasha's place, and not just because it's got hot water and a full fridge. He's not a leech.

 

The stranger's ribbing is too much. Steve digs his nails into his palms, but the pain is infinitesimal compared to the roiling resentment sparking like a loose wire. "Fuck you," he growls. "You don't _own_ this porch." And he thinks: _what an asshole_.

 

A perfectly sculpted goatee peels back to reveal a flash of pearly white teeth. "Actually, I do. I'm Tony Stark. I own the building." The guy – Stark – has the temerity to fish a business card out of his breast pocket. "And you are?"

 

 _Oh shit_. This is the part where he lies. This is where he makes up an alias and gets gone before some paparazzo snaps a shot of them together and lands Steve in more hot water than a slow-cooking lobster. "S-Steve," he offers tightly. Just Steve. Surnames are dangerous. Stark’s, for example, can literally move mountains. ("Guess I needed some way to amuse myself once I closed the company," read the tagline under a still shot of Stark's smarmy grin. Steve remembers staring at it for forty-five minutes in a waiting room with sticky floors and grim-faced doctors who detoured for Starbucks coffee first, before bothering to put Steve out of his misery).

 

Stark looks his fill; Steve knows his type. "You live here?"

 

What's the right answer? Steve's heart lurches in his chest. He doesn't want to get Natasha and Thor into any trouble. He really doesn't want to have to stop coming over because he's a marked man, so to speak. "No," he says. "Just catching my breath." The night is cold enough to justify an unhappy little shiver. "Gonna run me off for loitering on private property?" He wouldn't be the first, but Steve didn't make his goodbyes and he can't help feel a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving just like that, without explanation.

 

"Probably not," Stark says with the same noncommittal air of a man giving his opinion on foreign politics. "You liven up the place. Think it's the fashion sense. Very early nineties."

 

"Thanks. I think."

 

Examining the grit on the sidewalk and wondering if it would hurt under his knees is a more natural response than any he could give. Steve and compliments just don't mix well together.

 

"Tony--" A male voice echoes from within the lobby. They both turn. It's the guy who was talking to Natasha earlier – Banner, Steve's memory supplies – and he looks just a little bit exhausted. "Thought you'd left," he says, emerging from the shadows with a relieved little sigh. He looks like someone's dad, which isn't terribly reassuring. Steve steels himself out of habit as their eyes meet. "Oh. Hi there. You must be Natasha's friend."

 

Steve doesn't know what to do about the broad palm extended his way other than to reach out and shake it. It's the polite thing to do. "Steve."

 

"I'm Bruce. It's good to meet you." The smile he offers Steve seems almost genuine. He must be a very good actor. "Is this guy bothering you?" Bruce asks, jerking his chin in Tony's general direction. Crouched as he is, Bruce doesn't cut a very imposing figure. There's something apologetic in his gaze. A little speculative, too, as if he's got X-ray vision like one of Thor's preferred comic book heroes—like one of Bucky's. He stops just short of a conspiratorial little wink; thank God, he looks enough like someone's dad that Steve doesn't want to go there. (His mind does anyway: hazard of the profession.)

 

Tony scoffs, "You can kiss my ass, Doc, I was just entertaining the kid."

 

The finer points of romance sometimes escape him, but Steve can read banter as well as anyone. These two are comfortable enough with each other that harsh words are just as permissible as they are quickly forgiven. Steve remembers the boomerang recoil of Bucky's name-calling and he knows how he felt every time he baptized his best friend _jerk_ and _asshole,_ and whatever other bad words he could think of that weren't bad enough to sting. "I'm not a kid," is all Steve finds to say by way of answer.

 

"Eighteen is still a kid."

 

"What about twenty-eight?" Steve tries not to let pride get the better of him. Tony Stark gets a lot of things wrong; he did lose his company through some less-than-judicious management, according to the newspapers Steve sometimes reads. Watching his jaw drop and gloating because he got one over the man is just mean. Steve changes the subject: "You're a doctor?" he asks Bruce. Does every woman in his life have a good looking, charming doctor friend? Is that a thing now?

 

Bruce smiles, a little sheepish. "Physicist. I only started med school as part of a bet. Didn't actually think I'd pass any of the exams, but..." _Right. Because that makes it so much better._

 

Steve finds himself returning the smile despite the nervy clenching in his gut. "Wow" seems to be the appropriate response. (Later, he'll remember Tony-fucking-Stark was sitting right there, watching this exchange unfold. But that's later, when the dread and the sinking guilt finally solidify.)

 

"So how do you know Natasha?" Stark asks, shamelessly interrupting as he liberates his smartphone. Steve doesn't understand why, at first, but then he realizes Tony is scrolling through his emails and his hackles rise absurdly at the thought of being so beneath his notice. 

 

Of course he is. He's a nobody. He blames Stark's disdain for the way he blurts out: "We have a business arrangement." It's really not what he meant to say and now Bruce is looking at him with renewed interest and Stark has abandoned his phone and Steve – Steve feels his cheeks flush warm. "Anyway. I should go back in..."

 

"Yeah," says Bruce. "It's getting cold out here."

 

Steve may not have degrees upon degrees, but he's not an idiot; he knows what Stark was opening his mouth to ask and what the answer would've been. ( _Yes, she hires me for sex. Try not to faint_.) It doesn’t mean he sticks around so Tony can find his breath again.

 

He finds Thor angrily mashing buttons as Mario takes another dive to his death, insensible to the swarm of people inundating his apartment. At least he looks up when Steve squeezes onto the couch beside him. "Can you believe this?" Thor huffs. "I don't know how I made it through when we were playing together."

 

"Luck, maybe."

 

Thor's blond hair tickles his cheek when the other man leans into him a little. "So says the master. C'mon, mate. You have to help me out here. I'm getting creamed." Puppyish is not a look that works well on Thor, but he tries and his elbow nudges Steve in none too gentle prompting.

 

What else is there to do? Steve dutifully picks up the controller. He has to.

 

***

 

Devising a way to approach the doctor takes a whole week of soul-searching (not so much) and stalking Natasha's building (disturbingly easy to do, if you know how to blend in with shadows). If Natasha notices that his hands are ice cold when he comes to her bed, she says nothing. She answers every question he's got about Banner – there aren't many, Natasha is sharp and Steve doesn't want to attract her suspicion. From what he gathers, Doctor Banner is the reason she moved house in the first place. Steve can't decide if that's a good thing. "He's a good guy," Natasha tells him one night, sketching runes on either side of Steve's spine with her red-tipped fingernails. "I always thought he was handsome, too. In a weird, mad scientist kind of way."

 

Steve feels his breath catch. There's an extra fifty in his back pocket in the morning. Message received. He makes up for the late hours the only way he knows how, so it's not like he's been falling short. He's even getting better about pleasing Natasha; Thor, he takes care of in the morning, just before he leaves. Breakfast's been harder to squeeze into his schedule since he's started doing recon. It's a necessary trade. He can't just leave it to Natasha to acquaint him with the doc like she did Thor. The small, stubborn part of him that still refuses to acknowledge reality doesn't want to bring her into this.

 

Eight days and half a dozen clients later, Steve still lacks a solution. He knows Banner's schedule and he knows Tony Stark comes by sometimes – around midnight, usually, and he always takes the stairs two by two – but never with any rhyme or reason. Neither he nor Banner seems to keep regular hours. Wherever Banner works, he doesn't drive there. Steve follows him to the subway a couple of times, but he can't justify stalking him to work like some kind of creep.

 

He does what he does because he must. That's all there is to it.

 

Peggy's preferred strategy of taking the bull by the horns usually scares the bejesus out of Steve, who doesn't have her courage or her taste for conflict, but in the end, getting what he wants is as easy as knocking on Bruce's door and being invited inside. The doctor is too polite to turn him away – or maybe Steve just looks _that_ pitiful, like a Dickensian street rat. Whatever the reason, it works. "I'm glad you came by," Bruce starts to say, his smile warm and friendly. (Who does he think he's kidding?) "I wanted to apologize for the other night. Tony can be—"

 

Steve has him by the lapels before he can finish the spiel. He's done it before, but never with a john. He never had the guts for it.

 

It's not much of a calculation: Bruce is gay enough that he'll make eyes at Stark and Steve is sure he caught him looking at his ass the few times they crossed paths in the narrow stairwell. _Just leave her alone_ , he thinks. _Just leave her be_.

 

He ran his mouth at the party, but he can make up for that. He knows he can. He told Natasha that he's good with his mouth; she'll vouch for him. Or Thor can do it.

 

There's no need. Bruce grips his flanks with steady hands. He digs in his short-trimmed fingernails until Steve feels them through the wash-softened denim of his shirt. It's a blessing when Bruce finally gentles the kiss a little so it's not all clanking teeth and sloppy tongues. Finesse isn't so easy to achieve when Steve's staggering back and forth on a tightrope pulled taut to breaking. Besides, he knows enough about this trade to sense when to inch back and let Bruce take over. And Bruce follows, a quick study, his fingers knotting into Steve's shirt as they part for breath. He keeps Steve prisoner even then; his arousal is in the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, its echo ricocheting against the cavernous depths of Steve's ribcage.

 

The burst of want that takes root in Steve's groin and stirs his cock goes unnoticed; it's just fear cloaked in some other garb. That's all. His body can't always distinguish between the two.

 

"Steve, what... What do you think you're doing?" Bruce asks, a rush of words and coffee-scented exhales. "Steve." Like repeating his name will somehow help him remember who he's with, if not why. It's probably unkind to be enjoying his confusion. Steve smothers a pang of guilt. The important thing is that Bruce didn't see this coming. That's good. The upper hand still rests with Steve, for what little that's worth.

 

He doesn't know what to say. There's the real answer and the scripted answer, and in between there are landmines waiting to go off the moment he sets a foot wrong. This isn't just another client; he can't mess this up and walk away, twenty bucks poorer.

 

Steve tips his head back a little. It has the desired effect; Bruce meets the challenge of his upturned chin with another kiss. He's gentler about it, this time, but his hands palm Steve's ass with a sure grip and there's nothing hesitant about that. If Steve could think straight, maybe he'd fluff up with pride for calling it. So he's good at reading men, so what? His heart still jerks and jolts in his chest with every harried breath. He feels dizzy; one hurdle's past but a hundred still lie ahead. (Bad metaphor. Steve couldn't run to save his life.)

 

That's when he hears the shuffle of bare feet across the floor, their abortive halt.

 

"Oh, _hello_ ," drawls a familiar voice from the kitchen doorway. "What's this? Banner, you didn't say you got me a present."

 

Steve pulls away as if stung. When he maneuvers around, it's to discover Tony Stark's smarmy face, his wolfish grin. A startling lack of bespoke smart-casual wear. Stark is just a little underdressed for a Time magazine cover, but the pink-striped boxers would probably make GQ readers drool. It's all he has on, barring his Rolex. Technically, that shouldn't make Steve feel vulnerable, but it does. And not just because Tony is sporting an erection. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dubious consent, rough play, BDSM and some seriously screwed up thinking on Steve's part.

Steve feels the blood drain from his face. "I—Am I interrupting something?" Playing it off is all he's got; can't pretend he's got the chops to take a jealous Tony Stark in a fight, or the will to do it. He's here to keep the peace, not make things worse.

 

"By kissing him?" Tony jerks his chin in Bruce's general direction. "Only my last vanilla streak. Seriously, that was some entrance, Stevie-boy. Where did you learn that, MTV?" There he goes again, with the smirking and the rimshots. Steve rolls his eyes, because it's easier to focus on feeling exasperated by Stark's antics than quivering on the razor edge of his frayed nerves and maybe choking a little on his breath because he can't help think of what Stark can do to him if he's half as resentful as Steve would be in his position.

 

"I can go." And he thinks, _please_ _,_ _let me go. Please,_ please _,_ _let me go._ He stops short of invoking God; He's not listening.

 

A pair of warm hands alights on his shoulders. _Bruce_. How could he have forgotten about Bruce already? "You're welcome to stay, if you want. Tony is only teasing. He does that."

 

Steve makes himself sag back into Bruce's hold. Men usually like it when he plays the waif; he has the body for it and he's credible in the role. There isn't usually an audience watching, though, or coming closer, or—oh _God_ , Tony's fingers are on his cheek and Steve knows he's burning up, cheeks flushing pink whenever he gets really scared and Tony is suddenly—kissing him. His mustache tickles out a sneeze.

 

Behind them, Bruce sniggers. "I told you to shave that thing." The rumble of his voice echoes against Steve's ribcage, like a shout at the bottom of a well. He can't think of an apology fast enough.

 

Luckily, Tony Stark doesn't seem to be in the habit of letting other people steal his spotlight. He may look a little disgruntled, but he finds it in him to growl, "Bite me, Banner," and tilt Steve's head back with another, rougher press of lips. It does the trick. Steve can't say he's very good about the whole seduction thing, so whenever a john just takes the upper hand, that's—better. Steve lets his eyes fall shut. He can focus on undulating his hips against Bruce's, on putting his hands on Tony's cotton-clad hips. Maybe even hook his fingers in the elastic waistband and cop a feel.

 

No. He doesn't dare go that far.

 

"Jesus Christ on a pink pony," Tony breathes, "he tastes like _peaches_." His liquid, auburn gaze flickers to the doctor, inquisitive and not a little bit hopeful. Steve feels a shiver arc through him. "Can we keep him?"

 

"I don't know." Bruce is gentler. He rubs Steve's back with talented hands as he asks, "I'm not sure I get why you're here, but... do you want to stay?"

 

It takes Steve a moment to realize the question is meant for him. He swallows hard. "Y-yeah." He doesn't think they'd care much for his real reasons, so this is the next best thing: a timid white lie. He knows he's given the right answer when Tony pulls back with a broad grin, looking strangely victorious.

 

"Told you."

 

"Yes, Tony. So you did." Bruce sighs, but there's something soft in his voice, something like long-suffering forbearance chiseled to Buddha-grade levels of calm. It's strangely beguiling. Steve tilts his head back against his shoulder, lips parting in silent invitation. Bruce takes him by the chin, gentle enough that it doesn't feel like they're taking something he's not willing to give.

 

The kiss ends too quickly to justify his drunken stagger when Tony reaches for his belt buckle. "Relax," he coos, "nothing here but good times, yeah?" A john would say that. Steve doesn't bother hiding his gasp when Tony's fingers find his still-soft dick through his pants. He's got good hands. He doesn't squeeze too tightly, or mash Steve's cock up and into his pubic bone; he knows what he's doing.

 

Trouble is he's not alone. Bruce has a hand in Steve's hair and he's stroking and he's stroking, until he tightens his grip and _pulls_ , and it's all Steve can do not to come up on tiptoes. Heat surges under his skin, a fiercely rushing wave sweeping all in its path. He's only dimly aware when Tony pries open his belt and zipper and sinks a hand down his belly to touch his cock.

 

"Oh, you're a big boy, aren't you?" Tony laughs. He _laughs_. "You've gotta see this, old man—" And just when Steve thinks it can't get any worse, he sees Tony reach for Bruce's free hand and press it under his clothes. They can both feel his erection now, the slick stain of precome on the front of his tighty-whities.

 

Steve hisses out a breath. He knows he's not strong, but he pulls Tony to him with his fingers hooked to fleshy hipbones because Ritchie Rich over there is hard, too; Steve can feel the insistent swell of Tony's cock against his thigh and he's not about to buckle under the pressure. He'll be damned before he lets them mock him. (They wouldn't be the first.) All that really does is trap Bruce's hand between them. The sharp inhale against his shoulder is a telltale sign that he might have overestimated his reach. Steve hangs his head, halfway torn between kissing Tony and putting his hands against his chest and shoving free.

 

The doctor's fingers keep him still and stuck, thumb sweeping over the slick cockhead again and again until Steve feels ready to beg. Bruce anticipates him: "Why don't we take this somewhere more comfortable?"

 

In Steve's experience, there's never a good time to say no to a client and that's when they're _not_ landlords and old friends, when there's no one disappoint. He nods, making himself into a willing party. It's easier to do when Tony smirks, gleeful, and Bruce presses a kiss to his cheek; when they let him go for a few seconds so he can catch his breath.

 

He follows them into the bedroom on his own two feet. He's neither drunk nor high, and there's no one telling him to unbutton his shirt and pry it off. He's down to his undershirt when he sees the leather cuffs dangling from the four-poster bedframe. The noise that creeps out of his throat is almost as embarrassing as the ones he sometimes makes in Natasha's bed. Too late to swallow it back down, Steve only thinks of getting his feet in motion _. One in front of the other, come on_.

 

Tony flashes him a grin. "It's something, right? I built it myself."

 

He doesn't mean the bed. That would be normal and kind of endearing in a weird, 'you've got too much time on your hands and what the hell is wrong with buying flat pack' sort of way. Tony means the self-standing St. Andrew's cross in the corner of the bedroom, all steel and dark mahogany polished to a fine sheen. These two aren't just a little kinky. They're big time sadists. Steve feels every jackrabbiting thump of his heart, courage slipping.

 

"You okay?" Bruce touches a hand to his hip. "If you've changed your mind..."

 

That gets Steve's focus where it should be: on Bruce and Tony, not on their props. "No! I mean, no. Sorry, I just—haven't seen one of those before. In, you know, in real life." He catches Bruce sliding a glance over the top of his head, presumably to Tony, and fear kindles in Steve's chest at the thought of them being the ones to change their minds.

 

But that's not how it works. Even Steve knows that this kind of relationship is all about one guy calling the shots. "Will you show me?" he asks, making his voice as soft and sultry as he knows how. At the end of the day, _Just relax, honey, I'll take good care of you_ isn't so different from shedding his clothes and toeing off his shoes as he goes to his knees in front of Tony. It helps that their hands got him hard already; his erection is stubbornly visible, arching against his belly with ersatz arousal.

 

At least until a loud guffaw startles its way free of Stark's throat. "Wait, you think I'm the one you've gotta convince?"

 

Steve feels his jaw slacken. He'd really love it they could stop laughing at him, but that seems like a pretty unimportant thing to worry about when Doc's hand is in his hair, stroking the shell of his ear. The sound of his name pulls him up short:

 

"Steve... Tony prefers to have things done to him, not the other way around."

 

Bruce sounds so earnest, so indulgent that it makes Steve's insides clench violently. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry—" Chagrin bites like a creature with fangs, rending his pride to shreds. "I didn't know. I'm sorry..."

 

"It's okay," Bruce says.

 

"Yeah, it happens all the time." Tony couldn't look more amused. He's got that Cheshire cat grin going and it takes Steve a second to realize that it's because of him: because he's naked and even if Tony isn't into whipping his skin until it breaks, he's just as hot-blooded as Steve's been fearing.

 

It takes a light tug on his hair to get him focused. "We don't have to go there tonight," Bruce points out. All Steve hears is that strangely ominous _tonight_. He can't think of coming back here again. He can't face the thought that this might be the beginning of a thing—like the thing he has with Thor, but worse, because Thor is nice and makes him dinner and can't play video games to save his life. (Because Thor only wanted to sleep last night and Steve didn't even have to stroke his cock to get him there.)

 

Steve shakes his head, breathing through the sting in his scalp. "I want to," he lies. Stark still owns the building, doesn't he? And Bruce is still Natasha's friend and she hasn't invested so much into Steve so he'll be a disappointment to her now. He swallows hard, makes himself look up at Bruce as he licks his lips. "I've thought about it."

 

The soft murmur has the desired effect. Bruce strokes his fingers over Steve's cheek, thumb brushing at his lips. "Yeah? And what's the 'it' you've been thinking about?"

 

They're not going to make this easy on him, are they? Steve can't say why he's even remotely surprised; they took one look at him and probably told Nat they wanted a go. (The fifty in his back pocket says it all.) He balls his hands into fists, the best he can do to keep from reaching for Bruce's zip fly. Something tells him that might not be appreciated. "Your hands," Steve says, "your—you could spank me?" Does it sound as pathetic to their ears or is it just him?

 

"Oh?" Steve wonders how he ever thought Bruce was a nice, regular sort of guy. He's never seen someone more distant, or harder to please. "Is that why you're kneeling at my feet?"

 

A shudder of something unwanted and warm and not-unpleasant arcs through Steve as Bruce's hand palms his cheek. He lowers his eyes, but he can't bring himself to shake his head for fear of losing that single point of contact, that artificial anchor. What is he doing? God, what is he getting himself into with these two and why is Tony crouching in front of him, still smirking like the asshole he is? What's that about?

 

"He likes it when you talk," Tony says, conspiratorial. "He'll pretend he doesn't and threaten to gag you, but I know..."

 

Bruce sighs. "Be quiet, Tony." So much for sound advice from more experienced parties. Bruce looks a little put-upon, a little weary, but his hand slides to Steve's nape and clenches tight. "Bend over the footboard. Knees apart." He doesn't make a request out of it. Not that it matters; Steve wouldn't disobey if it killed him. _Which it probably will_ , he thinks bitterly as he starts to shuffle towards the bed on his knees. "No—" It's just as well that Bruce keeps his nails neatly trimmed or the squeeze of fingers around Steve's nape would be pretty damn uncomfortable. "Stand up," Bruce orders. "I didn't ask you to crawl."

 

"Yes, sir." The word rolls off his tongue unbidden. He hasn't said it since he was a kid; his johns usually go for 'daddy.' There's something to keep in mind in the unlikely event that Steve will be able to afford therapy someday.

 

It's easier to keep a poker face with his elbows on the mattress and his back to the room. For one thing, no one's going to call him on it if the mask slips just a little or if he's gritting his teeth like he might not be enjoying it. The position itself is nothing unusual. No one wants to see his face when they're fucking his ass—except maybe for Natasha. (Can't think about her now.) The back ache will go away on its own, eventually. It always does. He tries not to startle when Tony drops to the bed, lounging on his flank like he's here to play spectator. He probably is. Some guys get off on other people's pain, even if they're not the ones causing it.

 

"You like it rough," Bruce says, walking fingertips over the mottled bruises on Steve's hips. They're not as bad as they could be. Natasha mostly doesn't notice them and Thor has given up trying to get Steve out of his clothes when they fuck. He says 'yes' because it's what Bruce will want to hear. Guys who play with leather restraints don't want to hear you're into cuddling and sex with the lights switched off. Bruce bends over Steve's back, his breath a hot exhale in Steve's ear: "Good."

 

The shiver that runs up his bent spine isn't all dread.

 

Still, he's far from ready when the sting of an open palm swats his left ass cheek. There's nothing dignified in the startled little squeak that scrapes his throat on its way out. This is supposed to hurt and it _does_.  

 

Steve rocks forward on the balls of his feet, fighting the urge to claw the sheets. Breathing gets hard for a second there at the top, but he can push through the pain. It's the shock that lingers. His cheeks flush. He hasn't been spanked since he was a kid and this is bringing up all kinds of questions—like why isn't he telling Bruce to stop? What kind of guy would turn down getting his cock sucked for  _this_? Steve can't look like he'd be that much of a disappointment, right? Bruce is no mind reader; he offers no input. He only strokes his fingers over Steve's shoulders, his other hand clenched a little too tightly into friction-warmed skin. Is Steve supposed to count the blows? 

 

"Oh, come on," Tony scoffs. "You can hit harder."

 

"Tony--"

 

"I'm just saying!" comes the grinning protest. 

 

Bruce snorts. "About that gag..." How can he say something like that and be greeted with a goddamn smirk? Steve wants to look away, but Tony's right  _there_ and Bruce's fingers on his skin are a weird mixture of too much and not enough that he can't help want more of. "What's your safeword, Steve?"

 

"My--my what?" He's seen the word before in the erotica Bucky used to borrow from the public library -- books that Steve sent back by mail because he was too embarrassed to return in person -- but it's nothing he's had to use himself. In his line of work, it would be as alien as being taken out to dinner and plied with flowers or chocolates. He doesn't put out because he likes his johns. There's nothing to be gained by saying no. "I don't need one," he tells Bruce when he realizes the other man is waiting for an answer. "Honest. I'm good."

 

"A man after my own heart," Tony says and ruffles his hair. Steve can scent his cologne; it smells expensive, like everything else about Tony Stark. 

 

Bruce has other ideas: "Don't hold it against me," he starts to say and Steve really hopes this isn't the beginning of a kindly-meant  _thanks but no thanks_ , he hasn't come this far and pulled off his pants just so they can-- "but I don't play like that. I don't want to hurt you -- well, in ways that you don't enjoy." Bruce strokes his thumb into the wing of Steve's shoulder. "What about 'red’?"

 

Oh, thank  _God_. Steve all but gives himself motion sickness from nodding so quick. 

 

"Say it," Bruce orders, dropping an octave again into what Steve is fast beginning to recognize as his bedroom voice.

 

He obeys. "Red" startles out of him. It's just a word. Just another word. He's not going to pretend it's worth more than  _stop_. The sting of a slap is enough to put paid to the notion. Steve's breath hitches violently, but Bruce is there, soft lips against his shoulder blade and Steve has to bite back a note of protest. He jerks when Bruce hits him again. The small hurt is a tongue of fire lapping at his skin. 

  
"Yeah," he hears Tony say. "Like that." Isn't he supposed to be all meek and quiet? This is most definitely nothing like the pornos Steve most definitely never watched, back when Bucky was around to help expand his horizons. Someone is touching his cheek. Steve cants his head to shake off that too-gentle grip, starts to mutter a protest along the lines of  _come on, give it to me_. The words never make it out. Tony has no business looking at him like he hung the moon.   
  
This time, Bruce's swat is a welcome distraction. Steve cries out with the impact, lending his voice to the echo of skin slapping skin. He'd sooner grind his dick into the sheets than let either of these men touch him, but that choice isn't his to make and he thinks  _Natasha, Natasha, Natasha_  when he feels Bruce slide a finger between his cheeks.   
  
"You're--"   
  
Steve nods furiously. Yes, he lubed up before coming here tonight. He did it in a gas station restroom, surrounded by the sloppy caricatures of erect penises and foul smells. Somehow, he has a feeling that's not what gets Tony so hot he has to sink a hand into his boxers and give his cock a long stroke.   
  
"That's the sexiest thing I've seen all day." Bruce pins a hand at his nape while the other slip-slides through the slick mess between Steve's cheeks. He was sloppy; he couldn't relax enough to do it right and the sound of men using the urinals kept putting him off his stroke. It sucked and yet he's glad he took the time, especially now that Bruce is working his thumb in there with sharp, shallow little jabs and muttering about how tight Steve is, how hot.   
  
Fingers cup his balls in a rough stroke until Steve can't help but rock back into the touch, desperate to get more out of it than sheer pressure. "You like that?" Bruce asks, all tender and sweet. "What about this--" Steve isn't ready for it, he doesn't see it coming, and the light swat against his sac is enough to make his knees buckle.   
  
Bruce catches him. "Easy, easy there..."  
  
"I'm sorry--" Steve tries to right himself, but it's like there's a fist knotting his insides and he's going to cry if -- Jesus, what the hell's wrong with him? -- if Bruce doesn't do it  _again_.   
  
"Nothing to be sorry about," Bruce keeps telling him. "Not everyone -- you don't have to like what I like. It's fine if that's off limits. I won't do it again, I won't." He's not as broad as Thor, but Steve is just far gone enough to welcome Bruce's arms around him. He grabs hold with both hands, afraid he'll lose Bruce's interest if he says stop. ( _Red_. Like Natasha's hair.)  
  
Tony makes a face, lounging like a cat that's taking up as much space on the mattress as it possibly can. "Oh, come on. Just look at him! Does he look like a guy who's not enjoying himself?"  
  
His erection is giving him away and Steve has never been more ashamed. Yes, he's hard but he's not -- he doesn't  _like_ this. He  _can't_ like this. He's only doing it because he has to. Safer to think that way and keep things like lust and desire well out of the job. It's  _just_ a job. It ends.  
  
"Take a deep breath," Bruce advises. It's like Tony isn't even there. "You got prepped for us, didn't you? Is this what you were thinking about, Steve?" He doesn't wait long enough for an answer; it's just as well, Steve doesn't think he could come up with a convincing lie. "It's okay, just relax... I'll make sure tonight is worth your while."  
  
Bruce guides Steve back down to the bed and spreads his legs. This part is familiar. Or it should be. Steve reaches for Tony's cock without being told. He only trembles a little when Bruce pries apart his cheeks and lays him bare like that, actually  _looking_ at his puckered hole.   
  
 _Freaks_ , Steve thinks, without heat. He doesn't have a leg to stand on when his mouth actually waters at the sight of Tony's prick in his hand, those awful pink boxers pushed low over his knees. Tony doesn't shave down here, either.   
  
"Oh, fuck," Stark groans as Steve's lips lock tight around his dick. The visual alone seems to do it for him, but Steve tries his damnest to prove he knows what he's doing, tongue swirling around the tapered cockhead and worrying stubbornly against his slit. He's good at this. He's always been good at this, long before Bucky slid a finger into his mouth and said "Jesus, your mouth's made for sucking, isn't it?" like Steve was something precious and rare. 

 

He's not. They suck cock for twenties a few streets from here like it's going out of style. (That's where he belongs.)

 

"Bruce, you've gotta try this. Oh my God, Steve--yeah, fuck. Can you swallow me whole, babe?"  _Stupid question,_ Steve thinks, groaning a little around Tony's length. The vibration isn't enough to render Tony silent. Nothing short of an actual gag seems likely to achieve that. Doesn't matter. Tony's moans are nothing if not appreciative and when he begs -- "Can I fuck your mouth?" -- he actually waits for Steve to cant his head into an awkward little nod before driving his hips forward. He's practically polite. 

 

He makes for a good distraction, only it doesn't last. Bruce's hands are back, two fingers deep into Steve's ass and -- he jumps, startled, when something cool and blunt presses between his cheeks. No cock he's ever had was so startlingly icy, not even Natasha's plastic strap-on. Then again, no cock Steve has ever taken widened toward the base as it went in.

 

"It's a plug," Bruce deigns to tell him, eventually, once Steve has already figured it out for himself. It's got to be as thick as Thor's massive prick: not a happy thought, though Thor's never asked him for a blowjob and Steve is man enough to admit he initiated sex with him more than a couple of times. Better his mouth than his ass. If his lips were a little swollen afterwards, that's his own damn fault. 

 

It's all his fault.

 

Steve clenches experimentally around the cone of the plug, but that doesn't stop it pressing in; his efforts only ramp up the pressure to the point of pain. He desists immediately. Not that it makes much difference: Bruce lubed it up well and Steve might have prepped himself before knocking on his door so he's all slick and ready, but he's playing with fire trying to take this kind of toy. He's bitten off more than he can chew.  

 

In a moment of weakness, Steve tears his mouth off Tony's cock. He turns his head so Tony can't pull him back down. Thinks about asking Bruce to leave off, but he doesn't have the words ready-formed in his head, he's never thought of using them before because he knows what happens when you're a tease, after money's exchanged hands. (It's never good.) That's when the horrible -- not so horrible, actually -- sense of fullness reaches its zenith. His sphincter snags tight around the plug, clutching at a much slighter base. Steve tries not to think about what it must look like from Bruce's end. Is he enjoying this? The angry pink of Steve's hole, does that get him off? Does he swat Steve's hip because he needs to hit to feel  _something_?

 

Steve knows better than to ask. He's never done anything so depraved and he waits for shame to engulf him, but there's no room. Tony slides a hand under his chin.  _Oh. Right._  He forgot about Tony. 

 

How could he forget about Tony?

 

He doesn't use his hands. Some guys like it when it's all slobber and dog panting on their dicks; Tony certainly doesn't look about to complain. If this is as bad as it gets, then -- fine. Steve can deal with this. 

 

From somewhere far over his shoulder, he hears Bruce say, "don't come," like he thinks that might actually happen. They're nothing if not ambitious around here, but Steve's only hard because of the friction of his cock rubbing against the sheets. That's the only reason. It's not like he's started to listen to the sound of Tony's syncopated breaths or wishing Bruce would hit him again. He's not like that. 

 

Bruce's warning comes again, gentler this time, as a low buzzing fills the room. Steve's first thought is  _chainsaw, they're gonna cut me open_ , but that's a little too Hollywood. A little too slasher flick. This is a different kind of torture. He flinches when he feels that pulsing, humming  _thing_ against the back of his leg; doesn't dare try to glance over his shoulder to see what is, though it climbs higher and higher, until --  _oh, God_. Bruce settles a firm hand to Steve's lower back, no doubt to keep him still -- and he fits what can only be a vibrator against the base of the plug already thrust deep into Steve's body. 

 

It's like a gut punch from within. It's like someone's taken his prostate between thumb and forefinger and decided to give him a shake. Steve cries out, fingers knotting in the sheets. And then he doesn't remember how to stop. 

 

He feels like he's about to pass out, like his throat is a long, windy tunnel and all the air is seeping from his lungs without it doing him any good. The pleasure is so intense, so brutal, he's sure he's about to come or die, or possibly both at the same time—which would be kind of a pain to explain to the authorities when they come to take his body away, but at least it wouldn't be his problem. He almost feels relieved when his vision begins to darken. This is it. This is how he finally ends up making a fool of himself and ruining a good thing. (He tells himself he means Natasha.)

 

But then the buzzing stops more abruptly than Steve knows how to handle and he arches back, mewling desperately for the loss of contact.

 

Someone's petting his hair, telling him he's okay. It's a lie, of course, but Steve's been nodding along until now and he's not about to stop just because he feels a little out of it. He turns his mouth into Tony's hairy thigh, lapping blindly at the tendons that pull taut as Tony splays himself wide.

 

"Good boy," he says and Steve doesn't preen or growl. He's too far gone for shame. The thick plug is pressing against his prostate and his cock is leaking against the bed sheets, but he doesn't know what to ask for, what more he can possibly take, so he keeps quiet. He lets Tony feed his stiff dick into his mouth and tries not to choke.

 

He thinks Tony might like that.

 

Not to be outdone, Bruce rakes fingers down the length of Steve's spine, like a doctor checking to see how his scoliosis has evolved. Most johns don't notice or care and Steve's never felt self-conscious about his crooked back before, not unless it was Bucky doing the watching in the shower, after gym class. Bucky would usually just say he looked like a mutant and start talking about the X-Men. He never made a big deal out of it. But Bruce actually _is_ a doctor and he's probably noticed by now all the many ways in which Steve fails to measure up. Steve should be working harder to impress him.

 

He tries. Mostly, it's with his mouth on Tony's hard dick, sucking and slurping at his cock as best he can, considering he doesn't really feel like he's all that _present_ , or his hands catching on Tony's knees and giving a weird, not entirely sexy rub at the rough skin. He's a far cry from ready when he feels Bruce take his wrists and slide leather cuffs against each one in turn.

 

"What—" That's all Steve gets to say, the word a hushed exhale gusting over Tony's length, before he feels Bruce's hands at his nape, guiding him to his task.

 

He doesn't have to say _suck_ , Steve already knows that's all he's good for.

 

Slowly, almost tenderly, Bruce guides Steve's right hand back, curling it around until it rests against the small of his back. Steve breathes out long and waits. He's never done it like this before, but the thought of giving a blowjob without using his hands at all isn't that scary. He just has to relax his jaw, keep his teeth out of the way. Trust that Tony won't forget he needs to breathe from time to time.

 

The cuffs lock together with a metallic click, leaving him to jerk and pull uselessly at his bonds. Of course, they hold. Bruce doesn't do things by half measures and he's clearly prepared for this. Steve tries to picture Tony on his knees like this, spitted on a fake cock and aching from the sting of Bruce's hand, and finds that he can't. Not when Tony is going to town, fucking up and into his mouth like that's what it's made for. He wouldn't be the first guy to say it; only one ever managed to make it sound like a compliment.

 

Over his shoulder, Steve hears the sound of a zipper coming undone and knows what's about to happen. They'll fuck him like this: Tony on one end and Bruce on the other, until he's gasping for air, for help, and they just keep going at it, looking into each other's eyes while Steve chokes on his own breaths.

 

He hates himself for the guilty twitch of his cock and even more for the eager way he grabs for Bruce's with bound hands when he feels the other man push close. It's an awkward grip. He can't see what he's doing and Tony won't let him focus. It's even worse, because Tony's starting to keen and shake, all these little moans catching in his throat like he might be about to come. Bruce is hard, but he's also eerily quiet. He's not responding at all to Steve's shaky attempt at a handjob. Panic begins to set in: there's no way he can get them off at the same time.

 

Steve starts to pull away, forcing his head against the grip of Tony's fingers in his hair. The noise of protest that bubbles out of his throat is all unbidden, but he's desperate. He can't control the pace and his teeth creep out, grazing once, just once, around Tony's hard dick.

 

The reaction is immediate: Tony's fingers clench fitfully in his hair, drawing him _in_. "Bruce—Banner, fuck, I'm close—whatever that was, do that again? Please. _Steve_. God, baby, _please_ do that again—" He's babbling, incoherent, and it takes Steve just a second to understand that he's not pleading for mercy.

 

What he needs from Bruce is something else, is _permission_. Steve's had johns who wanted to watch him jerk off; he's asked to be allowed to come before. But a client's okay was never _required_. It just seemed mannerly, somehow. Like maybe he could make them feel like they had the power to get a guy off just by staring at him long enough.

 

Superman had lasers in his eyes and X-ray vision; every boy wants to be a little special.

 

"Not in his mouth," Bruce says and it's cruel, it really is, but Steve breathes a little easier when Tony pulls off. He doesn't realize what that means, though, not until it's happening and thick white ropes are gushing warm and slick and musky all over his flushed face.

 

He has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut to avoid the sting of Tony's semen. Even then, his cheeks seem to glow a hot, angry red, moans catching in the back of his throat as he's held in place. He feels rather than sees Tony inch forward, the smear of his come a filthy, disgusting, weirdly affecting brush against Steve's mouth. His lips part of their own accord. It's easier to let his tongue dart out for a taste than to fight off the impulse.

 

"Yeah," Tony says, shuddering. "Fuck, honey, that's it—" So much for Bruce's interdiction. Tony just takes and takes, scraping his dick against Steve's bottom lip until his cock is utterly spent. That's when he pushes in, fingers tight on Steve's jaw and his still-hard dick a heavy weight thrusting shallow and agonizingly _slow_ into Steve's mouth.

 

Tony doesn't have to press in too deep; Steve chokes on his own spit, breaths knifing violently in and out of his lungs. He must look a mess, but clearly that turns them on, because Tony keeps touching his face—his come-streaked, red-stained face—and Bruce's cock is rock hard in Steve's fist, like they can't get enough of seeing him all soiled and used. What kind of man gets off on this? What kind of man lets this happen to him?

 

Steve wants to hang his head. He wants to rub himself against the sheets until the tension coiling in his belly loosens a little. He doesn't try for fear of screwing up even worse.

 

"You like that, huh?" Bruce pulls him up by the shoulders: it's easy, Steve barely weighs a hundred pounds with his clothes _on_ and he's pliant with them off. Fingers slide over and into his mouth, spreading Tony's ejaculate, making him swallow it. "You get off on sucking dick. Is that it, _boy_?"

 

 _Yes_ , Steve thinks and it takes him a moment to realize he's said it out loud, albeit a little garbled because of Bruce's hand. No one's actually interested in what he has to say, though. (No one ever is.) Bruce twists him around and shoves and shoves until Steve's shoulder meets the mattress. The plug is thick and unyielding in his ass, bordering on painful. It shifts a little, accidentally, and then again when Bruce drops a firm hand between his thighs to squeeze the base with slippery fingers.

 

The jolt of pleasure that rocks through Steve is anything but accidental; Bruce, damn him—Bruce knows what he's doing. He's not gentle about it, not even a little bit, and that should suck because Steve isn't like that, but it doesn't. Steve's legs drop open eagerly, insides clenching every time Bruce shakes the toy to and fro. He tells himself he can't come just from this kind of stimulation, but he's glad his hands are twisted up behind his back, a far cry from comfortable; he needs to get Bruce off first. Somehow, Steve needs to make this worthwhile for him.

 

"Fuck me," he chokes out, hating the way his voice cracks. "Please—sir, please fuck me."

 

It's a new low, but it beats lying there while Bruce's cock leaks precome against his thigh, his needs unmet. "That what you want?" Bruce grunts. "You want me to fuck you?" Thick, talented fingers lock around Steve's ankles, jerk his legs up high into the air, pushing them up as Bruce kneels into the gap. Steve has a hard time looking, but he makes himself do it anyway. He's not chicken. He's not scared of a man with a thick, flushed dick and a little belly fat under his purple shirt, his hair sticking out over his ears like he's some kind of present-day Einstein. It's just that, with his pants low over his hips and his cock peeking out, Bruce looks ruffled and angry. His cheeks are flushed as red as his prick.

 

"Yeah," Steve tells him. "Yes, s-sir." He wets his lips and tries again, words verging on a sob as he begs, "I need—I need your cock. Please. Please, I'll be good."

 

 _I'll be good, daddy_ , Steve thinks desperately. Is that what he needs to say? He doesn't get to ask. Bruce bends his left knee like it's a fucking twig; he only balks a little at the noise of Steve's creaking joint, expression unreadable. The tight clutch of his fingers relaxes just a fraction. It didn't hurt before, Steve wants to say, but there's no point. The pain comes after, as Bruce flicks a sharp palm to swat the sole of Steve's foot.

 

"Fuck!" Steve twitches, kicking out, but he's skin and bones and Bruce is so much broader and there are cuffs holding his hands together at his back and—Steve took a spanking and didn't fall apart, what the hell's wrong with him? The slaps keep coming, no matter how hard Steve squirms. They zero in first on the left foot and then, when Bruce gets bored, on the right.

 

Steve does his level best to shake him off, but Tony's there, with hands on Steve's shoulders and his tongue licking off the congealing traces of his own release, like a cat lazily lapping up cream. "Look at you," he murmurs. "Jesus, _look_ at you..." There's no mirror, though, only Tony's big, warm eyes on Steve's.

 

He would really rather they _didn't_ focus on him, but since none of this is what he wants, he doesn't bother telling Tony to fuck off. He knows what he looks like: a used-up toy. A cheap slut. He _knows_ , alright? "I'm sorry," he sobs. Whatever they wanted, whatever designs Bruce had, Steve can't satisfy them. "I'm so—so sorry, I..." That's as far as he gets before his body betrays him with a pitiless, bone-rattling orgasm. His toes curl into the sheets and his back arches like a bow; it's miracle he doesn't snap into pieces.

 

 _Red_ , he thinks, but it's no use. It's already too late.

 

Dimly, Steve knows he's crying. He can hear himself and he feels the panic-stricken roar of his pulse echoing in his ears, but, really, it must all be happening to someone else. He's never fucked up like this before. He's never _wept_ for a john; usually his tears are all reserved for Bucky. That thought only makes fresh salt spring to his eyes. It's much worse than betraying the dead. He's gone and ruined whatever good thing he had with Natasha; Bruce is sure to tell her and even if he doesn't, Tony probably will. They'll laugh at him and Natasha will realize what a waste of time it's been to try and shape him into someone he's not—and she'll tell him to stop showing up at her door. She'll end it.

 

Steve can't go back out to the street corner. His stomach roils at the thought. He just can't.

 

"You're okay," a voice is telling him softly. _Bruce_. "Steve, babe, everything--everything's fine. Shh..." Bruce turns him over to his side, the better to undo the link between his leather wristlets, and Steve can't stop his shaking long enough to help or protest or do anything except lie there and be manipulated like a goddamn ragdoll. "We're stopping," Bruce insists. "We're stopping right now. Don't cry, sweetheart—oh hell..."

 

Steve feels the tug of fingers against the plug still lodged snug against his prostate. He whimpers at the reminder.

 

"I know it hurts, babe, I'm sorry," Bruce murmurs, "I'm just taking it out. It won't hurt anymore. Tony, get the blanket—"

 

They swaddle him like a child, like a weak, broken-legged animal. It adds insult to injury that Steve can't even summon the strength to shove them away or stretch out his hands so Bruce or Tony or _someone_ can peel the leather from around his wrists. No one complains, not even Steve. Bruce keeps up a steady stream of tender nothings, telling him he's okay and petting his hair, like he knows anything about what this feels like. Like he gives a shit. The illusion is remarkable. Somehow, Steve ends up cocooned between them with so much room to breathe that he can't even say they're suffocating him. His lungs feel tight for a different reason.

 

Guilt proves as heavy as an elephant pressing down on his chest.

 

The worst thing isn't that he can still taste Tony's come in the back of his mouth or that he saw Bruce's erection flag; it's that neither of them is asking what the hell just happened. Maybe they just don't care, but Steve has to try to apologize somehow for his freakout. "I fucked up," he croaks. "I know I did."

 

"Oh, please," Tony snorts, very nearly at the same time as Bruce says, "You _didn't_. You were great, Steve, you were everything Nat said. I'm sorry, I—I pushed you too far. I should've paid attention—"

 

"If you're going to start with the self-flagellation," Tony warns, "I swear to God, you're sleeping alone tonight."

 

Steve can only imagine Bruce's glare. He doesn't dare raise his chin to check if he's right. "Don't tell her," he begs. "Please." Natasha can't know that he messed things up; if she knows, she won't want him. Steve licks at his chapped lips. "I'll suck your cock, just don't. Don’t tell her."

 

An awful, heavy silence greets his plea. It takes an excruciatingly long while for Bruce to say, "Okay... Sure. Of course. I mean, I won't say anything if you don't want me to." He acts like he doesn't know why, but a doctor with two degrees can't be that thick. Steve suddenly feels glad he can't see Bruce's face: bad enough that he's got a front row seat to the slow creeping pity in Tony's eyes, all tepid and so, so knowing.

 

No wonder Tony drops the hand that was rubbing at Steve's knuckles to prop himself up on his elbow. "So... what's your going rate, kid?"

 

 _Finally_ , Steve thinks, relieved, _they've given up the con_. 


	5. Chapter Five

Steve plucks his boxers off the floor, then his socks. The jeans are too tight and he has to do an awkward little shimmy to get them on. He can't help a hiss as the denim scrapes his stinging backside. He'll shower when he gets home, put some lotion on to numb the ache, and he'll be back to his usual best by tomorrow night. It's a safe sort of pipe dream. Steve almost believes it.

 

"I'm not paying him," he hears Bruce hiss in the other room. "I've never—" The rest devolves into sullen muttering. Bruce wanted to give him space and the privacy to get dressed. Tony didn't seem eager to touch him much, either, so here he is: alone in the bedroom and trying really hard not to look at the bed or the cross or any of the paraphernalia in his immediate vicinity.

 

The fire escape outside their window tempts the soul. Steve resists. He tugs his shirt on before making his way into the living room.

 

"Uh, you don't have to pay me." Bruce and Tony are standing at opposite ends of the room, their body language practically spelling out chariness. Steve feels compelled to set the record straight: "Natasha already took care of that."

 

"She did." It's not a question, but Steve nods anyway. He doesn't like the way Bruce is eying him, like he's a problem to be solved or a kicked puppy to be pitied. _You had your fingers in my ass half an hour ago_ , he wants to shout. They both know that. This is just—buyer's remorse. It's no wonder, considering. Steve would've offered to get him off, but Bruce said 'no' pretty firmly and Steve couldn't crawl out of bed to follow him fast enough. His ass hurts even now, but it was worse when he was in their bed.

 

"Let me get his straight," Tony starts, "Natasha paid you to have sex with us?" He tugs a hand through his hair, pulling when he reaches the back. He shouldn't do that; he'll go prematurely bald.

 

Steve nods absently. What's so hard to get? Natasha knows what he can do and she must think he's got some skill in the bedroom or she wouldn't be making him aware of all the men in her life who could use a hand or a mouth.

 

"And you said yes?"

 

That's tricky. Steve stuffs both hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, shrugging a little. "Would I be here if I hadn't?" The answer is yes, but they don't need to know that.

 

Tony heaves a sigh and it's his turn to look out of sorts as Bruce makes to creep that much closer. "Steve, we never. _I_ never... asked Natasha... She only said you were interested in us." Something awful and despondent flashes across Bruce's face, sharp contrast to the hard eyes and pinched mouth Steve got used to seeing a little while ago. "Were you? Interested, I mean..."

 

"Sure." Steve's been down this road before. Better to tell a john what they want to hear than to make trouble. He even plasters a smile onto his lips, cocks his head to the side: "Maybe we could do it again sometime?" The thought is enough to earn a shudder, but Steve forces himself not to show it. He's going to do what he needs to do to keep Natasha happy. None of this is outside the scope of his usual job and he only does that for cash. He can do it for Nat.

 

A desperate sound steals out of Bruce's throat, halfway between a cry and a whimper.

 

"I think you'd better leave," Tony says, cold and distant. What's that about?

 

The last thing Steve sees as the door swings shut behind him is two men staring at each other across the vast expanse of an empty room. Guilt swims in his belly, but quick on its heels is lukewarm disgust. He did that. He doesn't knock on Natasha's door. It's late enough that he feels it's probably best to just call it a night. Bruce promised he won't tell. Maybe he'll come through for Steve.

 

*

 

Peggy's front door is less of an obstacle and more like salvation. Steve has knocked on it often enough when he couldn't get his breathing under control, when he ran out of sugar—he even remembers knocking on her door when Bucky happened. He's usually good about taking silence as an indication that Peggy just isn't home. She works odd hours and now she's got a boyfriend. Why expect her to be at home at all? Steve knocks again, louder this time. No answer.

 

He raps his knuckles against the wood at a crescendo. "Peggy?" Why isn't she answering? Is she angry? She must be angry with him. It's true, though, he's been neglecting her since he met Natasha. No wonder she's upset. He's a lousy friend. "Peggy? Please—" Steve takes a shuddering breath. His knuckles have started to hurt, so he starts pounding the door with his open palms until those ache as well. All he can hear is the sharp smack of skin. It's not such a different sting; Bruce's hands must know it well. His forehead thumps against the door. "Peg, c'mon. I'm sorry." He is, just not for the things he should be sorry.

 

It's not until he tastes salt in his mouth that Steve realizes he's drinking his own tears. A new low. One of these days, he's going to hit rock bottom and stay there. Bucky would call him an idiot. ("Get your head out of your ass, Rogers. Self-pity is like kryptonite for girls. You wanna score, you gotta keep your eyes on the ball--") What would Peggy say?

 

"Steve?" Her voice is too thin and reedy to be imagined. Steve twists his head a fraction and there she is, groceries in one hand and her house keys in the other, staring at him like she's seen a ghost. "Steve, what—"

 

A wet, soggy breath catches in his throat. "I-I fucked up." He's too far gone to chisel vulgarity out of his voice. It's not like he can blush any redder. His knees give out somewhere between Peggy taking a step forward and her putting both arms around his waist to catch him. The smack of groceries hitting the ground seems to come from very, very far away. An apple rolls into the stairwell and down to the floor below. Steve wonders if it makes it that far; perhaps, if he were a physicist, he could calculate the speed of a spinning object against the slope of the hallway and inexorable pull of gravitational forces. Not that it makes much difference; a falling body must touch down sometime.

 

*

 

"Give me her address," Peggy growls, "and I'll end it for you. Where does she come off using you like that?"

 

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. "It's not like that." The blanket across his knees and the cup of warm milk are making it hard to gesticulate; he leaves that to Peggy, who's been pacing the living room lengthwise ever since Steve finished telling her what he's done.

 

Her fuse, once lit, is hard to extinguish. "Bullshit. You were having a panic attack a minute ago!" She doesn't have to finish the thought for Steve to know who she's trying to blame for his failings. It's sweet in a totally unfair kind of way. It's unwanted.

 

"I'm fine with it," he protests. "I can do it... I do it all the time." Or he used to; he hasn't been out on the street since last week. Natasha pays him just enough that he can make rent and he's got Thor making him noodles and pancakes and even, on one memorable occasion, chicken pot pie. He doesn't need to overdo it.

 

Peggy stops pacing. "You know, I've always thought you were a sensitive kind of guy who got dealt a bad hand... but this is just stupid. Your girlfriend is pimping you out, Steve. And you're telling me you're fine with it? What the hell kind of answer is that? Don't you have any pride? Don't you—"

 

"I don't have anything else to give her!" Steve has never shouted at Peggy. He's cried in front of her before and he occasionally gets panic attacks and comes knocking on her door, but it's never been like this between them. He likes her too much to make her the punching bag for all the problems she didn't cause. Milk splashes across his hand and over the blanket as Steve climbs to his feet. He doesn't know why he bothers; Peggy is still taller, she could still flatten him with a single smack of the hand. (Not that she would, but Steve's always been hyper-aware of other people's advantage over him.) "Girls like you don't marry guys like me, alright?"

 

It's the pursing of Peggy's lips that tells him how far he's overstepped, like a freaking barometer. "Girls like me," she deadpans.

 

"I didn't mean—"

 

Peggy doesn't let him finish this time: "I know what you meant." Her voice is hard, unbending steel. "You've got some nerve. You don't know anything about me, Steve... and I'm beginning to wonder if you know anything about this girlfriend of yours." Peggy's eyes narrow at him sharply, something frosty and hostile sidling into her gaze. "I'm going to have a shower. You do what you want. It's obviously going great for you so far."

 

She's already gone; the bathroom snagging shut behind her by the time Steve finds the breath to say he's sorry. He is. Desperately, stupidly sorry. He wipes hastily at his tears with milk-stained fingertips. He'll take the blanket and wash it so Peggy isn't forced to cope with yet another of his shortcomings. The mug he takes care of then and there, before letting himself out of Peggy's apartment. She must have gathered up the scattered groceries while Steve was laid up on the couch waiting for the Xanax to take effect, like one of those high society ladies on _Downton Abbey_. He still feels a little woozy from the meds, but that's what his bed is for, cold and empty as it is. And if he tears up a little before he conks out, at least there's no one around to see it.

 

He wakes in darkness, with Bucky's leather jacket clutched in his fists like a baby's blanket or something. Peggy's right. He _is_ stupid. His watch reads eight pm. Natasha will be home already. Bruce, too, which is by far the more worrisome prospect. Steve shoves his way free of the sheets and has the world's quickest and coldest shower. He's still shaking as he hunts for a clean shirt and underwear. That's when he catches sight of the bruises on his hips for the very first time since Bruce put them there. The mirror renders the red-and-purple blooms of fingers squeezing at his hips almost prettily. Steve can't resist pressing a fingertip into one just to see if it hurts.

 

The ache is there, sharp and sweet, and it sends an almost electric zing lurching into his belly. Steve wants to do it again, but there's no time. He zips up over the guilty swell of his cock, hoping that the long subway trek will be incentive enough for it to soften. He thinks of checking up on Peggy before he heads out, too, but can't think of what he'd say if he caught her at home. Peggy's never walked out on him before, however angry he made her.

 

By the time he makes it to Natasha's place, the thought only hovers uselessly at the back of his mind. Nothing to be done about it now. He'll make it right tomorrow, because postponing difficult conversations always makes tackling them that much easier.

 

Steve finds himself glad he's got his game face on as the door swings open. It's not Natasha standing in the gap. It's not Thor, either.

 

"You must be Steve," the man says, crooked grin widening as he looks Steve up and down. "I'm Clint. Tasha's told me all about you. Come on in."

 

They shake hands. It's almost polite. Steve almost doesn't feel like he's coming apart at the seams.  

 

"Want a beer or something?"

 

Steve keeps a good three feet of distance between them at all times. His hand still aches from Clint's bone-crushing shake. He may be as short as Steve, but he's built like Thor; that seems to be Natasha's type. Steve already knows he's the exception that proves the rule. "Um, Thor isn't around?" He can't say why he asks; maybe it's the weird sense of security that comes with the familiar, maybe it's because he doesn't want an audience of two again. It would be too much like last night.

 

"He and Tasha went to grab takeout."

 

"Let me guess... Chinese?"

 

Clint makes a face. "Yeah, Tasha's crazy about greasy carbs. Shit, who am I kidding? So am I... Comfort food's comfort food, right? You didn't say if you wanted that beer." He's standing in the refrigerator light, pale eyes trained on Steve like a pair of headlights.

 

"Sure," Steve tells him, figuring that a little alcohol could make this easier.

 

"Good boy," Clint says and hands him a bottle already uncapped. Steve pretends he can't feel his skin crawl as he takes a hard pull from his beer. It's like drinking cough syrup mixed with Drano. He fights not to make a face. "Have a seat," Clint invites, like he lives here now. Shit, maybe he does. The revolving door of Natasha's apartment seems open to a whole lot of men who aren't Steve. (That he's here at all, that Natasha has talked to Clint about him doesn't seem to factor in.)

 

They sit and it's as awkward as expected. Clint's got the TV on, the sound low enough that Steve can only hear a faint hum of voices over the harsh drumming of his heartbeat. He doesn't know much about sports; he can't afford cable and his TV disintegrated sometime last year. He'll do movie night with Peggy, if she's home and she feels like putting up with him, but even that's fallen by the wayside in recent weeks. He thinks one team may be the New England Patriots, but that's just a guess. Not enough to start up a conversation.

 

Clint seems content to just watch the game and drink his beer, so for a while, that's what they do. It's not the most captivating thing in the world or maybe Steve just isn't invested enough in the sight of burly men tackling each other at full speed; whatever the reason, it isn't long before his thoughts begin to wander. Normally, Natasha lets him understand what she wants, whether it's with hands in his hair gently guiding his mouth to her cunt or soft, cajoling words as they lie in bed, talking about other men. But Natasha isn't here. She never said anything about a Clint, either, but given the ripped jeans and the studded belt, he doesn't have the look of a coworker. He could be her boyfriend, the one Steve had given up thinking about, or another old friend. Natasha's got lots of those.

 

It doesn't make much difference. "Did Natasha say how long she'd be?" Steve asks quietly, not wanting to disturb but keen to know if he'll have the time to get this done before she gets home. (One taboo they haven't broken yet is that of bringing other people into bed with them. Steve takes care of that on his own time and there haven't been any complaints. He thinks Natasha prefers it that way.)

 

"Should be back in, like, fifteen, I guess?" Clint wears a watch, too, but unlike Tony's, it's not a Rolex. His boxers probably aren't pink, either. The only way to be sure, though, is to find out.

 

Steve takes another swig of his beer and sets the bottle aside on the coffee table before sinking to his knees. His hands find Clint's belt buckle.

 

"Whoa, there. What are you—"

 

"I can be quick," Steve says, like that's a point in his favor. Not with Natasha; he can't seem to last more than a few minutes when she's working him loose with her strap-on. "Just let me—"

 

Clint digs fingers into his wrists. "Dude, stop. _Stop_! The hell's the matter with you?" He only nudges Steve back, but there's potential for hurt in those fists. Steve bristles, his hackles rising. He never learned how to back down from a fight. 

 

"A blowjob isn't going to make you _gay_." The number of men Steve's had, the city should be one big, non-stop Gay Pride parade.

 

"You think that's what I'm worried about?" Clint stands so quickly it's a miracle he doesn't knee Steve in the nose. "You're my sister's boyfriend, you dick."

 

Steve stays on the floor, where he belongs. " _Sister_?"

 

"Yeah, you might've met her. About yea high, pretty red hair... After that stunt, though, maybe it's best you clear the hell off. I don't know what your game is—"

 

"It's. I'm not." Steve trips over his words. "I just thought you were like Thor." _Please don't tell_ , he nearly begs. _God, please don't tell Natasha_. It's his worst fear and it's about to be realized not because he failed to give her what she wants but because he overreached.

 

Clint's eyes widen almost comically. "You're fucking her roommate?" He didn't know about that either, then. _Terrific_.

 

"It's not what you think," Steve starts to say. "I'm not cheating—" But it's already too late. Clint grabs him by the arm and hauls. He may be a little on the short side, but he's ripped under that hoodie. His fingers are a vise around Steve's arm. Steve cries out, digging in his heels. He doesn't get much more than a hand catching in Clint's collar before his back meets the wall. It's not that painful.

 

"Start talking," Clint grits out, only inches from his face. He's as intimidating as a bulldog with rabies.

 

Steve does the thing he shouldn't do. The thing Bucky always told him not to do. He draws back his fist and swings.

 

It happens in slow motion: Steve's knuckles smack Clint's cheek, his head turns a precise forty-five degrees to the left. He staggers back. And then the world resumes its normal pace. Steve gets his guard up, like that's going to do shit when Clint makes up his mind and starts fighting back. Right now he's still shell-shocked, touching at his lip like he can't believe that there's no blood.

 

"Don’t touch me," Steve hisses. His voice doesn't crack, for once.

 

"Sucks, doesn't it? People touching you when you don't want them to?" A vitriolic shake of the head. "Guess payback's a bitch, huh?"

 

For a brief, terrible moment, Steve thinks he's about to get Clint's hand between his legs, forcing a punch against his privates—or maybe worse. He feels his stomach drop at the thought, perfectly aware of what it's like to have someone force you down to your belly, to drag your pants from your hips. The only difference is that Clint wouldn't be paying for it in cash. (The money's already exchanged hands; all that's left is to decide what it has bought: Steve's mouth or some other part of him. That's how this usually works.)

 

"Is this what you do with Thor?" Clint asks, keeping far outside the reach of Steve's bony arm. Strange to think of a guy like Clint wary of being hit, but maybe that's part of his shtick; maybe he's sensitive and he says _thank you_ when he's finished. Maybe he won't leave Steve to greet Natasha with a bleeding lip. "You blow him while he watches TV?" There's nothing of Natasha in Clint's face, but they've both got the glare thing going for them. It cuts Steve to the quick.

 

"None of your business," he says and it's ridiculous, especially now. He's the one who brought it up.

 

Clint is of the same opinion: "You made it my business, man." Sometimes the best defense is silence. This isn't one of those times. Steve's newfound reserve only spurs Clint on: "If I hadn't stopped you, you would've just—what? Given me a blowjob right there? What about Natasha?"

 

"What about her?" Steve digs his nails into the meat of his palms. "You think she doesn't know? She bought me off the streets—she gives me money so I fuck whoever she tells me to, alright?" There's nothing shameful in that. Steve's been telling himself as much since he first caught Thor's attention, reminding himself that he's only doing it for Natasha whenever he starts to feel like maybe it's not so bad to have Thor moan his name or see Tony undone by Steve's lips and tongue. 

 

"That's a lie," Clint grits out. "You're lying."

 

Denial is just one of the stages of grief. Steve braces himself for the moment Clint hits anger again. "Why? I don't blame her; she's just taking advantage of my very limited skillset." He almost gets through all of that without blinking. Hard to say if it's convincing. Clint just looks bemused. Maybe even a little seasick.

 

"I don't know who you think you're dating, but that's not Natasha. You know how I know?" Clint doesn't wait for an answer. "'cause she's been in your shoes. We both have."

 

Steve opens his mouth to say—he doesn't know. Bullshit, maybe. Nothing comes out and then there's click of the front door opening, Natasha's heels on the naked floorboards and Thor's lively voice in the background saying something about corndogs and corgis. Even he falls silent when he spots the tension in the room.

 

"Hi guys... everything okay?" It's difficult to lie to Thor; Steve always feels like a jerk when he does it.

 

Natasha purses her lips. "I see you've met Clint."

 

"Yeah," her brother drawls. "Steve's a very interesting guy."

 

"I think so." Natasha takes his arm and Steve doesn't know if he should lean into her side and soak up her heat or pull away, so he ends up standing there all stiff and awkward, feeling a little see-through. "Clint, go help Thor set the table."

 

Clint's brows all but meet his hairline. "You want to eat takeout at the table?" One long, level stare from Natasha is enough to get him going. Thor is harder to stir.

 

"You okay?" he asks Steve again, as if repeating the question is likely to get him a different answer. His perseverance is to be admired.

 

Steve offers him a shallow nod. He's fine. What else is there to say? Being left alone with Natasha should be a blessing: it's why he does what he does with all the others, why he comes here in the first place. Instead, all he's got is the heavy pressure of guilt and nerves making him want to hide.

 

"What's going on with you?" As hard as it is to lie to Thor, it's even harder to lie to Natasha. She's too sharp. "Did something happen with Clint?"

 

"You never told me you had a brother," Steve deflects as quickly as he can. He disengages from her hold, suddenly feeling like he's been cornered by a large and dangerous animal. Feeling like prey around Natasha isn't new, but it's been weeks since Steve disliked it so much.

 

"Foster brother," Nat corrects.

 

Steve can feel his jaw threaten to hit the floor. "You were in foster care?" Natasha, with her fancy suits and her fancy car—and the lease on an apartment this nice—couldn't look less like a statistic if she tried.

 

"Six years. Knew Clint for the last three. We weren't very sibling-like when we were kids, but..." Natasha shrugs. "We've stayed in touch." Given how protective Clint seems to be of her, that's putting it mildly. Natasha folds her arms across her chest. "What happened last night, Steve?"

 

A cold shiver races up his spine. "Last night?" Does this mean she's talked to Bruce already? Steve shakes his head. "Nothing... Why-why do you ask?"

 

"Tony came by this morning. He ran out of coffee." Neither of them mentions that even a destitute Tony Stark can probably afford to have someone bring him his Columbian roast at the crack of dawn, if that's what he wants. Natasha licks her lips. "Steve—"

 

"I went to see them," he says, choosing to bite the bullet. "You said Bruce was a friend."

 

"He is."

 

"And you said you thought he was hot. I mean, handsome."

 

Natasha arches a brow. "I might have said that... But I also think George Clooney is kind of handsome, objectively speaking. Does my opinion matter to you that much?" When Steve fails to answer, she presses the point: "Is that why you had sex with them last night? All part of some screwed up ambition to please me?"

 

Peggy said Natasha has been using him. Peggy called their arrangement tantamount to Natasha pimping him out.

 

Peggy isn't wrong, but there's a world of difference between having the guts to step out with every man Natasha sends his way and flat out admitting he does as he's told. Steve's always been stupidly prideful; all those childhood bullies couldn't teach him to keep his head down.

 

"Yes," Steve says, holding Natasha's gaze. "That's why." Because she told him and because it seemed like the thing to do at the time. Stark's got nothing to complain about anymore: Steve made up for any disrespect and Bruce got what he wanted. Everyone should be happy.

 

Everyone is not. Natasha takes a deep breath and holds it, holds it, holds it until she can't. Steve watches her let it out and her shoulders sag with it, as if the chink in her armor has suddenly broadened to a vast and open wound. He did that and he can't even say _how_.

 

"Nat—"

 

"And Thor?" she asks. "Every night you've sneaked into his room or stayed up to finish a game... was that for my sake, too?"

 

"Not every night." It's the wrong detail to object to; Steve can't find it in him to fashion a more convincing answer, though, so he sticks with that. He wishes he had the guts to take Natasha into his arms, tell her it's okay, he doesn't mind doing this stuff if it keeps her happy. He _gets_ it.

 

Who is he kidding? He doesn't get anything anymore and Natasha looks far from thrilled to discover that he's been doing exactly what she wanted him to do. She actually seems—surprised.

 

Steve could deal with that; it's the thing that comes after surprise has run its course that has him scraping his hands against his jeans, trying to force feeling back into numb fingertips.

 

Natasha doesn't let him get away with silence: "And is that why you've been fucking me?" There is ice in her voice this time; she sounds so much like Peggy. Like Bucky. Steve never did learn to be indifferent to other people's anger, but he can't flinch away from her or it will unravel everything that's left. "Did you sleep with me," Natasha hisses, "because I asked you... or because I was paying?"

 

Steve's throat works. He knows where the truth lies and it's somewhere in the middle, halfway between him and Natasha, halfway between reminding her he's a goddamn hustler and telling her he loves her more than his stupid pride. Nothing comes out. That seems to be answer enough for Natasha, who tugs a vicious hand through her hair, upsetting the careful 'do.

 

"Do you want me to leave?" Steve chokes out, because he's heard Tony say it once and he recognizes the same disillusionment in Natasha now. He's seen the exact same look she's wearing on Bruce as he and Tony threw him out last night. This morning. Time is a flexible, elastic thing. It's definitely not a Band-Aid; it heals no wounds.

 

Natasha doesn't make it easy. "Do you _want_ to leave?"

 

"Not really."

 

"Then don't. Make me understand what the fuck is going on in that head of yours, Steve... I thought I had a boyfriend—or you know, the closest thing someone like me is likely to find—but it turns out he's just my whore."

 

In all the weeks they've been together, Natasha has never been vulgar. She'll swear when Steve's got his fingers or his mouth on her, she'll grip his hair and call him a good little slut when she's plowing his ass, but this—this is meant to hurt. Steve starts to shy away, to calculate how many steps it'll take to make it to the door and out of her life for good. He feels seasick with the thought.

 

"No—" Natasha covers the distance between them in only a few long strides. "No, when I bellow, bellow back. Do you understand? I'm not your owner, I'm not your pimp... I call you a whore, you don't swallow that."

 

"But it's true." His voice cracks pitifully, like he's a teenager all over again and the hard truth doesn't agree with his sensitive stomach. "I mean, factually. It's true."

 

Something softens in Natasha's gaze. "Not for us. Or it wasn't, until you made it that way. I refuse to accept that there's nothing more to you than that."

 

Steve doesn't know what to say to that. _Thanks_ seems inappropriate. _You're crazy_ sounds too much like an insult and Steve can't imagine wounding Natasha like that. He settles on "you were giving me money," which is just close enough to the cacophonous thoughts roiling in his head that he has to whisper to get it out. "Why were you paying me if not for... sex?"

 

"So you'd come back to me instead of that street corner where we met." Natasha shrugs. "I know how this works, Steve. You need the money more than you need a woman in your bed. It's nothing personal, right? Even if you like me--"

 

"—I do," Steve interjects desperately, because somehow he's missed saying that until now. "I do like you."

 

"Even if you do... you still need to eat, right? Pay rent? I didn't know if you had a pimp to take a cut out of your earnings, so. I was helping you out. No strings, no obligations."

 

"Oh." It's not that it makes sense, but that Steve has never thought of it that way. "But you knew. You knew about Thor..." She left them to it and then she took Steve to bed and touched his mouth as if to make him relive what he'd just done. She never seemed to mind when Thor would touch his knee as they all piled together on the couch, too intimate for 'just friends.'

 

"Of course I knew." Natasha doesn't bother trying to pretend otherwise. "I figured out pretty fast that you liked both men _and_ women, and since we never said we were going to be exclusive..." Her shoulders hitch up into a shrug. "It's really not that hard to understand. I like you, Steve, and I liked going to bed with you. But I don't have time to play games or be the jealous girlfriend who sits at home, plotting revenge. I'll leave that for the soap operas. This? Stops now."

 

It's a cold shower. After all that, why should he expect anything different? It's no wonder Natasha doesn't want him anymore: he's a complication, a ball and chain around her ankle. She's right about him, but it still hurts like a physical, real life kick in the teeth. Steve staggers a little, chest hollowing as if the air has just been punched out of him. His lungs _ache_ , a real, raw pain that dwarfs any practiced blow Bruce could possibly deliver. "I'll... I'll go, then."

 

Natasha arches a brow. "I thought you said you didn't want to?" That was before Natasha told him they're over, though. "Lose the grim face," she adds, "I got mushu pork for four and no one else likes the garlic ribs as much as I do." Her fingers loop around his arm, nails digging in just a little in case he has his heart set on running away.

 

The thought does flash, briefly, through Steve's mind, but it doesn't take root. Steve finds his feet moving in the direction of the kitchen independently of logic, pulled by the tether of Natasha's inescapable hold. It shouldn't be a relief that she's not letting go.

 

Clint and Thor look up as Natasha pulls him into view, both of them wearing concern on their sleeves. The cartons are crowded like mushrooms between them, an obvious failure as far as setting the table. Clint nudges a chair back in silent invitation.

 

 _Comfort food_ , Steve thinks. It can't be that easy. 


	6. Chapter Six

It was bound to happen, but Steve's been hoping to avoid the awkwardness for at least another millennium or so through sheer luck. Then again, he has none, so of course Bruce is just coming down the stairs as Steve rounds the corner and they wind up on a collision course only a few feet away from Natasha's apartment. Bruce looks painfully normal, all jeans and beige button-down under a knitted cardigan.

 

Steve can't say he's ever run into a john doing something as mundane as taking out the trash before. _Not a john_ , he corrects, but it's already too late. He dropped that ball when it mattered.

 

For a second, he thinks Bruce might walk past without acknowledging him at all, but then Bruce does a double-take and his lips twist in a toothy smile. "Steve, hey... I almost didn't recognize you." That's not necessarily a good thing: the usual skinny jeans have been traded for a pair of black slacks that don't fit right. His jacket is about a size and a half too big. And still Steve finds himself wanting to believe Bruce when he says: "You look nice. Natasha made you dress up?"

 

"She's taking me out to dinner." It's a yes, albeit in a roundabout way. Should be the other way around, really, but Natasha is the woman with the car and the means and she actually knows restaurants that serve something other than burgers and French fries.

 

"Good. That's." Bruce nods, mostly to himself. "That's good. Remind her to tip the waiter this time."

 

Steve's been bracing for this meeting since that awful night three weeks ago. He was sure Bruce would avoid him. Couldn't blame him if he did, not after the way they left things. But Bruce just clamps a hand to his shoulder, smiles, and wishes him a good time. Steve almost forgets to be envious that Bruce seems to know Natasha better than he does. He can compete with a doctor (who also happens to be a college buddy) about as well as he can compete with Thor's good looks, but he's the one Natasha's wining and dining tonight, so maybe he doesn't have to.

 

He's glad she opens the door on the first knock. It means less time for his thoughts to run riot in his head.

 

"What's this?" Natasha asks, cocking her head almost owlishly at the box in his hands. She's wearing a black dress with a little slink, no jewelry. She looks beautiful, yes, but also relieved to see him. Was she as worried he wouldn't show? (That makes two of them.)

 

"Oh, that’s gotta be your enemy's heart," Clint crows from the couch. "Ancient courtship ritual. Very _in_ this year, according to Cosmo."

 

Clint is practically living here now, present at all hours of the night when Steve swings by and still there when Steve wakes up. Their paths have crossed more than once in the mornings, but Clint's not the chatty type and Steve wouldn't know where to start with an apology, anyway, so for the most part they've been doing the manly nodding-and-grunting thing that worked so well for their cave-dwelling ancestors.

 

Thor grazes Clint's shoulder with an open palm. It's a blow that should hurt, were Thor to put any real force to it. "Shut up. It's clearly the One Ring."

 

Natasha ignores them both. "You bought me chocolate?"

 

"I thought about flowers," Steve says, not quite an admission. None is needed; Natasha has the pink ribbon undone and the glossy lid is swinging open between them, revealing the contents within. "But I figured you might like this better..." It seemed like a good idea at the time. He even asked Jim which shop to get them from, so they'd be quality stuff, and tried not to feel like an idiot when they made him choose between bonbons with names like _Dark Caramel Embrace_ and _Midnight Swirl_.

 

He thinks he might have miscalculated, but then Natasha plucks out a sweet— _Dark Ganache Bliss_ , good choice according to the ladies at the shop—and bites with relish. Steve feels the blood flee every extremity to surge into his cock. He swallows hard. "They said it was, um, tasty."

 

"Try some," Natasha suggests, and offers him the remainder of the dark chocolate ganache.

 

Steve's done a whole lot of things with a whole lot of people, but standing on Natasha's threshold being hand-fed might just be his favorite. He can't resist swirling his tongue around the tips of her fingers. The chocolate is good—score one for Jim Rhodes—but the heat in Natasha's eyes is almost more than Steve can handle. He almost asks if they shouldn't just skip dinner altogether.

 

The chocolates will be here when they get back.

 

"Can I have some?" Clint asks, Wii controller perched between his knees. He looks like he's a step or two from lunging at the box of chocolates, regardless of the answer.

 

Steve nods a little shakily. "Knock yourself out." He's sure he's gone red in the face, that he must look ridiculous, but Natasha is grabbing her car keys and purse, so apparently the date thing is still a go. Steve hasn't been on a date since he was twelve and Bucky only told him that ice cream and a peck on the cheek qualified a date much, much later, probably to make Steve feel like less of a loser.

 

"Have a good night," Thor calls from the couch.

 

"Yeah," Clint echoes, "and don't forget to be home by eleven, you crazy kids." He ducks out of the way of Thor's ill-calibrated smack just in time.

 

"They're getting along well," Steve muses later in the car, as Natasha ignores some guy's honking by driving at a deliberately glacial pace. "Were they friends in high school?"

 

Mr. Road Rage finally overtakes them, blaring horn and all, and Natasha holds up two fingers to speed him on his way. Soon it's just her and Steve, and the fast-receding tail lights of the Chevy. "You could say that. Clint was our star quarterback for about half a semester in senior year. He went through a phase."

 

She puts it so casually that it takes Steve a second or two to catch up. "Was he the one Thor—"

 

"Here we are," Natasha interjects and Steve would think she doesn't want to talk about it, except her lips are twitching up at the corners into an almost-smile as she parks just off the street, careless of the battered parking meter that nearly winds up on the hood of the Citroen. An ornate façade beckons, flowers dangling from suspended urns like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Inside, the restaurant is all warm yellows and rustic wooden tables. The maître d' greets Natasha like an old friend.

 

"You come here often?" Steve murmurs, trying not to feel like he's on display, like wait staff and the patrons all know what he is.

 

"I think we're past the staid pick-up lines, don't you?" Natasha folds herself into a chair before Steve can get over his navel-gazing to pull it back for her. So much for playing the part. "I used to come here a lot after work," Natasha explains, without his prompting. "Do you mind if I pick the wine?"

 

Steve is very glad he doesn't say _We're having wine?_ like some uncultured tool. He's got enough cash on him that it shouldn't be much of a problem, but there's nothing he can do about the big black vacuum of his inexperience. He says "not at all" and tries to tell himself that if Jack Dawson could con his way through a six course dinner with the DeWitt Bukaters, he can manage tapas with Natasha.

 

 _Jack Dawson also dies at the end_ , he remembers belatedly, so maybe he's not the best example.

 

"You're nervous," Natasha notes idly once the wine's been ordered and their food is picked. She's nonchalant about it, like she's talking about the weather.

 

Steve flushes. "A little. This isn't my usual scene." Put like that, it almost sounds cool, though a hasty sip of water taints the thin veneer.

 

"Sure it is," Natasha purrs. The way she sits, with her elbows on the table and her upper body tilted just slightly forward, gives Steve an excellent view down her open décolletage. He's been making a concerted effort not to stare because it doesn't seem right, but Natasha smiles when she catches him stealing a glimpse. She drops her voice an octave, says, "You know, I'm not wearing any panties."

 

It's just as well there's only water in Steve's glass because he very nearly spills it all over himself.

 

"Seriously?"

 

Natasha laughs. She laughs _at him_ , but Steve can't bring himself to mind, because the tension between them seems to dissipate by the same token. "No, sorry." From the amused, commiserating lilt of her voice, she sounds like it. "You should see your face. It's like I told you I'm part fish. I suppose I could take them off," Natasha offers, eyes wide and liquid. Mirth is a good look on her.

 

"No, I was just." Steve leans in, matching Natasha's sultry, conspiratorial confession with one of his own. "I was just thinking that's some coincidence... I really thought I'd be the only one going commando tonight." Everything about this is new and scary, but he can do flirting. He almost thinks he's pulled it off when Natasha arches a brow and leans back in her seat.

 

"No kidding..."

 

The drawl of her voice is enough to make him worry that he might be playing with fire, but then he feels Natasha's foot on the inside of his calf and his breath catches somewhere in his throat. There are people all around them, talking, laughing, enjoying their dinner. One stray glance and they'll know what's going on. That doesn't stop Natasha. Her silk-wrapped toes slide between his legs, under his napkin.

 

Steve balls his hands into fists. "Tasha—"

 

Her foot slides away, as silently as it she first pressed against his fly. Steve can't decide if the groan that crawls out of his chest is one of relief or its polar opposite. "I'll make it up to you," he breathes, "when we get home."

 

"You think I'm the kind of girl who puts out on a first date, Steve?" Natasha clucks her tongue.

 

"More like hoping." And praying, if he's honest, because Natasha hasn't brought out her toys since the night they had the Talk and Steve's been making do with his hand in the meantime—which is fine, Natasha doesn't owe him anything, but not as good. Not nearly as good. In that one respect, he has to admit he misses how things used to be.

 

"Maybe if you play your cards right," Natasha hedges and Steve doesn't bring up the subject again for the rest of the night.

 

Dinner turns out to be a far less stressful thing once their food is brought out. Natasha isn't a fussy eater and Steve likes to listen to her talk about Thor and Clint and how she doesn't remember high school being as simple as it looks on TV. She tells him a little about college, too, but Bruce doesn't feature in the story and Steve doesn't ask.

 

Natasha still won't touch him when they get home. She's only had half a glass of wine with her tapas and Steve barely wet his lips, but he doesn't challenge her when she rolls over and drags his arm around her waist. She seems to enjoy having him in her bed, even without the sex. That's—something, even if Steve doesn't know what to make of it. He listens to her breaths even out and thinks about seeking out Thor or Bruce down the hall; useless as he feels, he makes himself stay put. Sleep always finds him easily in Natasha's bed.

 

*

 

The floor is slippery smooth beneath his feet and he's wearing someone else's shoes. Well, a lot of someone's. That's apparently how it goes at the bowling alley. His heart's been in his throat since they left the house after dinner, but now it feels like Natasha's mushu pork is threatening to crawl out of his belly the same way it came in and Steve can't get his breaths to slow down. He's had panic attacks at school and at home, a few times on the street when he was working. Never on a date, though.

 

Never with Natasha.

 

"Can I just sit out the first round?" he suggests warily, whispering into the curve of her shoulder.

 

Natasha tosses back her hair, grinning. "Want to get a feel for the competition before you blow us out of the water, huh? We'll let Thor start."

 

It's not what Steve was hoping to hear and he starts to say as much, wracking his brains for a better excuse—his arthritis and inner ear problems are totally date-talk material—when Thor steps up to the foul line, sixteen-pound pink bowling ball in hand. If this were a movie, there would be a drum roll.

 

Thor throws. He throws so hard that the whole bowling alley rings with the impact. Steve feels the vibration deep in his gut, jolted in his seat by the cannon-like thump. The ball trundles along speedily, in a perfectly diagonal line, and lands into the left-hand grove some twenty fit away from the first pin.

 

"Yes!" Thor's burly arms shoot up into the air.

 

Steve tilts a little into Natasha's side, grinning despite himself. "He knows he's meant to strike the pins, right?"

 

It's Clint who answers: "Sure, but he'd rather play by his own rules. Closer he gets to the pins _without_ hitting them, the happier he is. You should've seen him try out for the football team back in high school: he'd congratulate anyone who managed to tackle him." Clint does this sometimes; he'll sit quiet for hours and then say something that makes the whole room fall quiet. It's not usually so fond or so personal, but he did point out once that the praying mantis is actually a healthier pesticide than anything sprayed out of a can. They'd been discussing Thor's comic book collection at the time.

 

"Did he make the team?" Steve asks, because his own high school experience is not something he thinks on fondly. He certainly didn't make lifelong friends or get any roommates out of the deal. (That's not true. He had one good friend and he lost him.)

 

Natasha presses cool fingertips to the back of his neck, just under his shirt collar. "Look at him. Does he look like a footballer?" Thor looks like a whole lot of things, in Steve's opinion, including a circus strong man, but it doesn't seem very kind to point that out.

 

"Made a pretty good cheerleader, though," Clint says as rises creakily, ponderously, to his feet. "Double strike, coming up. Don't let her drink my beer," he tells Steve, a finger raised with an unspoken _or else_.

 

Naturally, the first thing Natasha does is help herself to his beer, possibly just because she was told not to. Steve recognizes the stubborn desire to do something forbidden; Bucky was like that, too, and look where it got him. And just like Bucky, Steve can't tell her off. He starts to disentangle himself from Natasha's arms.

 

"Where're you going?"

 

He should know better than to think he can escape unseen. "Getting Clint another beer?" It's not quite an apology. Natasha doesn't like it when he starts making excuses, so Steve's been trying to tone that down, act like to err is human and not in fact, a condition of his being _Steve_.

 

Natasha flashes him a smirk. "Kiss ass."

 

"You like kissing my ass," Steve feels compelled to point out as Clint lets loose a perfectly angled shot.

 

Natasha celebrates by taking another leisurely swig of his beer. Steve could swear she's putting on a show for his eyes only, since neither Thor nor Clint is paying them any mind, but Natasha wouldn't do that. She doesn't need to flirt to get him into bed. He starts to think he probably should revise that theory when Natasha licks her lips and says, "Yeah, I do," with very, very deliberate lilt. As if what they do in bed is worth bringing up. As if they haven't stopped.

 

"You're up," Clint says, clamping a hand to Steve's shoulder. Two x's mark his triumphs on the screen suspended overhead.

 

Steve hasn't bowled in years. He only went with Bucky, the one time, because Bucky had a girl he wanted to impress and he knew she hung out around the bowling alley. Steve learned early on that chucking round objects at cylindrical pegs wasn't his forte, which probably explains why Bucky even took him along. Next to Steve, even a mediocre player looks good.

 

"Let me help," Natasha offers, coming up behind him.

 

Steve could just about die. It's not enough that he's about to embarrass himself in front of her friends and family, but he's going to have to do it with Natasha literally looking over his shoulder. Terrific. He slides fingers into the holes of the ball Clint just used and hefts it laboriously from the rack. Clint made it look easy, but Clint's arms are veined and tattooed; he could probably bench-press Steve if he felt like it. There's really no contest.

 

Natasha chuckles. "What're you doing?"

 

"Picking a ball?" His is just slightly smaller than Thor's and he can barely shift it.

 

"Sure, but if you break your fingers, what will I do for fun?" Natasha quips and plucks the ball out of his hands. "Try this one. The six pounder." The ball she hands him is rainbow-painted and much, much lighter. Steve hefts it easily, which is indication enough that it's probably reserved for preschoolers.

 

"A girl ball? Really?"

 

Shoulders rolling into a shrug, Natasha leans a little into his side. "It's what I use and I kick Clint's ass whenever we come here... You're not calling me _frail_ , are you?" Steve has seen Natasha's biceps when she's leaning over him; she may not have Thor's build, but she's a long way from petite. She can pin him down with her bare hands, no restraints required.

 

Her fingers on his flanks are deceptively gentle, but things really start to get interesting when she reaches around to cup his ass cheeks. "Just give it a shot," she advises. "You can't be worse than Thor."

 

Steve doesn't point out that there is a distinct possibility his throw will bounce across the next three lanes and embarrass everyone. Or that with his luck, it's equally possible his fingers will get stuck in the holes of the bowling ball and drag him along like something out a cartoon. He says neither of those things because Natasha is kissing him on the mouth—in public—and he's not about to cut her short.

 

"Is that incentive enough?" Natasha asks, grinning as she withdraws.

 

"Quit making out and play," Thor urges from the table. "Natasha's up next and I want to see her wipe the floor with you guys."

 

Steve's head still full of cotton, but he hears that loud and clear. "Wait, what?"

 

"You're making out with the enemy," Clint supplies helpfully. "What, you thought our shoes matched accidentally? Purple is so not my color." There's something vaguely sharklike about Clint's smirk and Steve feels a shiver creep through him, not entirely out of fear.

 

Natasha keeps close, a hand on his hip as he takes up position. "Just let it swing," she whispers in his ear. "And try to aim for the middle pin. You'll do great."

 

It's the kind of advice people give right before tossing you out of a moving car, but Steve is smitten enough and stupid enough to do as he's told. The ball leaves his hand with just a little rotation and even less speed; it doesn't take his fingers along for the throw. The bowling alley must be slightly slanted, though, because his ball keeps rolling down the very middle, albeit slowly, holding trajectory until it finally rolls through the pins, sending them toppling with loud, hollow thumps.

 

Thor practically leaps out of his seat.

 

"What did I tell you?" Natasha snickers. "Trust the girl ball, young padawan."

 

Clint ushers her from Steve's side with a sharp, "Clear off, Lady Macbeth. Can't you see you're damaging his calm?" This doesn't stop Clint from sliding an arm around Steve's shoulders, all possessive and proprietary, almost like he's laying claim. It should be weird—they've been good about keeping their distance since that almost-blowjob and Steve has tried to up his machismo to match—but Clint shares Natasha's talent for going through awkwardness like she's Teflon. Nothing sticks, apparently not even Steve's misguided attempt at seduction.

 

"I don't think I can get the next shot," Steve says, dubiously eyeing the last remaining pins.

 

"What's so hard about it? Straight down the middle, try not to trip over your own feet..." Clint squeezes his shoulder companionably. "Oh, and if by some miracle you hit even one pin? I'll suck your cock."

 

Steve wheels around, sure he must have misheard, but Clint is already walking back to the others and there's no asking him to repeat himself. Steve's cheeks feel hot as he steps up the foul line. He swings his arm like Natasha told him to and the ball slides loose from his fingers. Maybe ten, fifteen feet down it tips over into the left-side trench, taking with it Steve's last hopes of a point.

 

He can't decide if that's something to celebrate or bemoan. Clint doesn't look all that torn up about it.

 

"There's always the next shot," he says, when Steve apologizes. It's either a threat or—the other thing. Steve tells himself it's a threat.

 

He doesn't hit another pin for the rest of the match, which leaves Natasha and Clint to compete against each other in a wearyingly equal match—until Thor unintentionally pulls a strike out of nowhere and resolutely tips the scales in Natasha's favor. Victory is only won by a nose, but it's enough for Steve to feel a little guilty and a lot stupid. Clint just happens to have a dry sense of humor, that's all. He's not offering the very thing he refused all those weeks ago. He's not.

 

Except when they get home and Natasha pleads an early day tomorrow like she's done for the past three weeks and Thor lumbers groggily to bed, Steve thinks the tension in the room might be more than a product of his overactive imagination. Clint's got the TV on as he makes up the fold-out, evening news playing on mute.

 

"Need a hand?" It seems polite to offer. Plus, Steve feels weirdly wired after the game. It's still early for him; midnight is usually rush hour on the backstreets and alleys where he makes the bulk of his living.

 

Clint flashes him a smile. "Sure.”

 

They get the sheet tucked in as best they can, pillows piled in a great, shapeless mound at one end. Steve almost finds the whole thing strangely companionable, like maybe they've finally moved past whatever grudge Clint held against him for that errant punch. That's when Clint says, "Gonna help me change, too?" and ruins the whole thing.

 

He's smirking. No doubt he thinks Steve's going to run scared; he wouldn't be the first bully to think he can push and push until Steve's knees buckle and give out.

 

"Not usually in my job description," Steve retorts, "but if you're feeling helpless..." He takes a step forward, mocking grin in place. That's as far as he gets.

 

"You still do that stuff?" Clint looks almost—disappointed. The thought rankles and not just because it means Natasha has told him about their little misunderstanding. Who does Clint think he is to judge Steve and his choices? Clint's sleeping on his sister's couch. Steve doesn't know if he's got a job and he hasn't asked. It's been two months and he still doesn't know what Natasha does for a living, never mind Thor or Clint. He's been telling himself ignorance is bliss.

 

He's told himself a lot of things lately, not many of them true.

 

"I haven't fucked Thor recently, if that's what you mean..." It isn't a 'no' but it's not a 'yes,' either. Steve could tell him he hasn't taken a client in three weeks, that the last time he tried he thought he was going to throw up; that he still feels foreign hands on him sometimes, just before he wakes up, and no amount of hot showers in Natasha's bathroom can make him feel clean. "I'm still dating your sister," Steve points out stubbornly as he covers the distance between them.

 

 _Must piss you off_ , he thinks, _to know your sister's sleeping with trash like me when she could have a guy like Bruce, like Thor_.

 

In the blue TV light, the angles of Clint's face seem even more pronounced. He's a Cubist painting, a sharp, jagged illusion of a man. Impossible to read. And Steve would be lying if he claimed he hasn't thought about this in the morning, his hand stroking quick and guilty between his legs, or when Clint's parading around the kitchen in his boxer shorts, no shirt on his back and no one else noticing.

 

Steve notices and he hates himself a little more each time.

 

He expects Clint to back down now that the challenge's been met. Instead he stands there, head cocked and gaze just this side of pitying. "You still don't get it, do you? Natasha's not like that. She won't care. Thor's living proof—hell, so am I." The way he rattles that off, all smooth and sure of himself, is almost enough to make Steve believe he knows what he's talking about. "Just... don't lie about it," Clint pleads.

 

"Why?" Steve shoots back, too quick to let the request sink in. "You'll make me regret it if I do?" The big brother routine is less palatable when he's on the receiving end of a threat, but he owes Clint a fist-punch. He steels himself for its delivery.

 

"No, man... 'cause it's a shitty thing to do," Clint says, scoffing. "You think Natasha would let me lay a finger on you?" That's an easy question and Clint must realize it because he corrects himself quickly: "You think I'd _want_ to hurt you?"

 

Steve hates this. The knowing, sympathetic stares, the way they seem to be tiptoeing around him like he's too dim to realize what they're doing: he knows this is just the prelude to the break-up. He's seen it coming a mile away, from the moment Natasha figured out he's been extending his services to people other than Thor. Clinging to every smile and every peck has only earned him muscle pain. The clock's winding down.

 

 _Might as well_ , Steve thinks as he fists a hand in Clint's shirt and reels him in.

 

Their lips smack together gracelessly, teeth clanking together so hard that impact ricochets through Steve like a physical blow. He knows full well this wouldn't work without Clint's willing participation: they're about as evenly matched as tigers and bobcats. He breathes a little easier when he feels Clint's hands settle at his hips. That, at least, is familiar. The way he gently nudges Steve away is less so.

 

At least there's no fist-punching involved.

 

"Wait," Clint breathes, their noses touching. "Why are you doing this?"

 

 _Because it's the only thing I know how to do right_. "You were flirting," Steve points out a little stiltedly. "At the bowling alley... You said--"

 

"—that I'd give you a blowjob even though I suck at it?" The pun, Steve figures, is intentional.

 

He feels dizzy with want, which isn't as new as it should be, and he's not so sure he knows the right answers anymore. Naming a price and dropping to his knees used to be enough as far as seduction; now he's supposed to flirt, to get people to want him for him rather than his mouth or his hand. Natasha used to love to stop and make him beg. Steve swallows hard at the memory, aching because he knows what it's like to feel hollow now. To miss someone.

 

"You left out the second part."

 

Clint smirks with half a mouth. "Woulda been pretty stupid of me to lead with that, wouldn't it?" he says, rubbing his thumbs under Steve's T-shirt and straying just a little towards his navel. "Wanna do it anyway?"

 

Steve feels his cock give a desperate, needy little twitch as it swells in his jeans. It's been a while since anyone's offered. The sheer novelty of the thing is enough to have him reaching for his zip fly and pushing his pants down with herky-jerky movements. He doesn't think about Natasha's curly red hair as Clint sinks down to the floor and presses his mouth to Steve's belly button. Natasha doesn't do it like that. She's a lot more single-minded. She'll tell Steve where to put his hands instead of letting him to figure it out for himself and that makes it easy. That takes performance anxiety out of the equation. Well, _mostly_.

 

He worries he should have dragged his briefs down with his pants when he feels Clint nose along the damp spot just over the tapered head of his cock.

 

"Use a condom," Steve murmurs and he knows he's flushing crimson, but it needs to be said. Clint's a decent guy. He doesn't deserve whatever Steve's carrying. (He's been due for a check-up for twenty days, but burning his bridges with Peggy means having to resort to Plan B: avoidance and denial.)

 

Clint sinks to his haunches and produces a foil seemingly out of thin air. It's some magic trick. "Always wanted to try suiting up a guy just with my mouth. Any pointers?"

 

Steve fists his hands at his sides, fighting to keep from reaching forward and snagging a hand around Clint's shoulder. "I hear choking on latex is really awkward?" The joke falls flat. He's too high-strung to be laidback about this. "I, uh, I've never done it." Not from this end and not from Clint's, either. It's a good day when he gets a john who brings up condoms on his own, no prompting required, but it only happens rarely.  Most settle for tugging down his underwear, like Clint is doing, and making him turn around and put his hands on the wall. (There's usually a wall; Steve hasn't spread himself in many beds.)

 

"First time for everything," Clint snorts and gives his cock a hard pull. It's so sudden that Steve nearly topples forward. He stops at the very last second, rising up on socked tiptoes and just narrowly avoids stepping on Clint's knees. He can't compensate quickly enough to keep Clint from noticing—or from laughing at him. "You okay?"

 

"Yeah," Steve starts to say, but he's really not. "You just—you surprised me." His cock is almost painfully hard in Clint's fist and he really, really wants this to work. Maybe then Clint will understand that he isn't completely useless.

 

Some of his discomfort must show, because Clint strokes his hip and says, "Easy, sweetheart. Why don't you sit down?" Mercifully, he stops short of patting the freshly-made bed. This isn't Steve's first time; he doesn't need to be handled with kid gloves.

 

All the same, he drops down slowly, gratefully, his cheeks hot. "Sorry for the, um..."

 

"Yeah, yeah. Where were we? Ah, yes--" Clint parts Steve's legs a little wider and bows his head. He's so nonchalant about the whole thing that Steve almost buys it. And then he can't think of anything at all because Clint's mouth is on his dick, rolling the condom down with zero precision but a whole lot of enthusiasm. Steve's fingers clench in the sheets; he still can't make himself reach for Clint's sandy hair, let alone touch the hinge of his jaw. He'll settle for wanting to. (That's dangerous enough.)

 

"Oh—oh fuck, _Clint_ , please..."

 

Clint groans and chokes a little, pulls back with lips crimson and glossy-wet. _He shouldn't look so kissable_ , Steve thinks dimly. "That's as far as I go."

 

Steve's lips part on a note of protest, confusion quickly giving way to disappointment. It was going so well and it wouldn't have taken much more to make him come, but if Clint doesn't want to, that's, that's— _oh_. Steve watches as Clint draws the condom the rest of the way down and licks his lips. That's not the look of a man who's giving up. Far from it. Clint swallows hard and sucks so hard at the head of Steve's cock that Steve has to dig his heels into the carpet to keep from thrusting up, into Clint's mouth, and _taking_.

 

Dimly, he wonders if Clint would stop him. He doesn't try it. Wouldn't be right. Clint's tongue swirls around the tapered tip, sloppy and swift, teeth a little too close for comfort when he worries the ridge along the underside , but Steve doesn't need fancy technique. He's glad he asked for the condom as release coils tighter and tighter somewhere deep in his belly; happier still when it ignites like a goddamn comet.

 

There's no biting back the sharp keen that crawls out of his throat. For all her games and all her teasing, even Natasha wouldn't ask him to do that.

 

Could be that Clint only pulls off to watch, but as soon as he's close enough to touch, Steve loops a hand around his nape and tugs him into a wet, careless kiss. He needs an anchor. Clint's mouth tastes of latex and beer and it just might be the hottest thing Steve's ever known.

 

"You're shaking," Clint laughs into the curve of his jaw. "You're—Christ, you're still coming, aren't you, babe?" He sounds impressed. Or maybe that's just shock. It's good enough. Steve clings to him like he's got a right, all of his little pent-up anxieties and all of his twisted nerves leaching out in hot spurts inside the condom. Clint's tight fist works him through the aftershocks.

 

He waits for guilt to hit. That's usually the way this goes: first the sex, then that slightly-delayed realization that he's sold himself again. Clint kisses his ear, his temple; he licks lazily into his mouth like he's the one who's just come. He makes it hard on Steve to focus on why this is a terrible, terrible thing.

 

"Let me," Steve starts to say, but he doesn't get to finish.

 

Clint untangles his right hand from the sheets and presses it to the damp patch between his legs. "Ship's already sailed, I'm afraid."

 

"But I didn't even..." _I didn't touch you_ , Steve thinks. The whole thing was spectacularly unspectacular and he came like a teenager with a porn mag.

 

"You're hot," Clint says, shrugging as he peels off his soiled jeans. "Don’t act like you didn't know." He climbs onto the couch, jostling Steve just a little when he collapses, boneless, on rumpled sheets. "There's room... you know, if you wanna stick around. Swear I don't kick like the other one."

 

Steve can't make up his mind if Clint means Natasha or Thor, but he ends up prying himself up from the couch after a second or two and yanking a blanket over Clint's still form. He feels weirdly compelled to stay, so he makes the effort to get rid of the condom before making his way into the bedroom and easing the door shut behind him.

 

His muffled footsteps should be too quiet for Natasha to overhear, but he finds her wide awake, sitting up propped up on her elbows when he turns around. It just about gives him a heart attack.

 

"Oh, hey... did I wake you?" Steve whispers, like that's going to do shit. He's standing there with his pants in one hand and his pride in the other, and all Natasha does is lift up a corner of the covers as if to say, _get over here_.

 

He goes. Of course he goes. He almost trips over his feet in his haste to comply, heart hammering in his chest as he slides into bed. By the time Natasha walks fingertips over the speed bump slats of his ribcage, rucking up his shirt and pushing it over his head, Steve's already close to begging her forgiveness. He bites back the urge at the last second, lets her have the first word:

 

"You were with Clint?" Natasha is always hard to read, but she doesn't sound upset.

 

"Yeah."

 

"You liked it?"

 

Steve nods, not trusting his voice. This is the first time he's acknowledged going from another lover to Natasha's bed. He waits for the other shoe to drop.

 

"Good." Natasha shifts her weight and the mattress creaks beneath them as she throws a leg casually across his hips and swings herself over. "I've got something for you—" There's nothing especially sexual about having Natasha draped across his lap, but Steve's hands still settle carefully at her hips, anxious to avoid crossing any lines.

 

He doesn't know what do with the book she plucks from the bedside table.

 

" _Sexual Dominance and Submission 101?"_ Steve reads out loud. He can feel his brows creeping steadily higher on his forehead; it's not the strangest thing Natasha's brought up in this bedroom, but it's close. It seems oddly definitive.

 

"I thought you might want to know what I'm into," Natasha murmurs, lips quirking into a small smile, "beyond the handcuffs and the strap-ons… You don't have to, but—"

 

Steve rests the spine of the book against Natasha's sleep shirt, just between the swell of her breasts, and parts the covers. There's a dedication on the first page: _from_ _Dr. B, to my best friend_. At least he didn’t dot his I with a heart.

 

"Bruce got you this?"

 

"A long, long time ago," Natasha confirms. "That a problem?"

 

Steve braces himself for envy, for guilt, because he knows full well he let Bruce do all sorts of things to him—all less than a month ago. His chest feels tight as he closes the book. "Will you tell me about him?"

 

He doesn't let himself think he overstepped when Natasha sighs and stretches languidly beside him. "Can't. I was all well-adjusted by the time I met him. If you want the full story, though…" It takes the better part of the night, but they get there in the end.


	7. Chapter Seven

“Look, kid, I like you, but I’m not running a charity here.” His landlord’s voice is tight with regret. He wants Steve to understand: he’s not a bad guy but times are hard and he’s got a family to feed. Well, two dogs. No difference. Every time Steve is late with his rent, Fido One or Fido Two goes without his supper.

 

Steve feels like a tool. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry, kid. Just get a job. I don’t want to call the cops on you.” The line goes dead on that harshly-bitten threat and Steve lets the phone slide back into its cradle. He’s been trying not to touch anything inside the grimy phone booth, but the urge to drop down to the floor nearly cuts him at the knees. He needs to regroup. The fifty in his back pocket is all the money he’s got left and it’s not exactly paying dividends.

 

He can’t ask Natasha for cash again. His pride won’t allow it. Plus, it would be unkind; Natasha works for that money.

 

The cool evening air hits him like a slap. He needs a job. He’s got one, though he took a leave of absence for three weeks or so to clear his head. In a manner of speaking. His head’s plenty clear now. _No more excuses_ , Steve tells himself and jerks open the rickety door of the phone booth. If he hurries, he could even grab a shower before he heads over to Natasha’s. He promised he’d help Thor cook dinner tonight. Granted, that usually translates to Thor making him chop things and Clint providing the running commentary, but it’s not something he wants to miss.

 

Boldness has never been part of his charm, but he has to throw caution to the wind if he wants to make it home in time. (He’ll worry about thinking of Natasha’s place as home later.) The first car he sees is a sedan, dark green and a little dusty. _Good enough_. Steve goes for it, stepping off the curb with a single-minded swagger. None of the other hustlers show a lick of interest. He doesn’t get why.

 

The passenger side window rolls down to reveal a pretty run-of-the-mill john. Nothing special. Nothing to be afraid of.

 

“Hey, baby...” Steve lets his forearms hang just inside the door. Men usually like his wrists. They like seeing that he’s skinny and fragile-looking, too. Easy to bruise. Steve tries not to shudder as he feels the john’s gaze slide over him. He’s the daddy type: not bad-looking, but clearly getting on in years. His hair is thinning at the temples, the corners of his eyes nicked finely with subtle crow’s feet. Steve gives him forty or forty-five at the oldest. He looks like an office worker, a middle management nobody.

 

Maybe, if Steve is lucky, he’ll have no imagination and settle for a handjob.

 

“How much?” He’s straight to the point, isn’t he?

 

Steve rattles off his prices; they’re not the same as what he offered Natasha, months ago. He thinks this guy can afford him without a rebate. He can. Steve is told to get in. This is usually the hard part, when his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in with a vengeance and Steve has to smother it, to psych himself up for the job ahead and put himself in harm’s way. Peggy calls him thoughtless; he’s not. He knows full well that guys like him don’t get old doing this job.

 

“So what’ll it be, sweetheart?” The guy hasn’t given a name. Steve prefers it that way. He lets a hand drift across the space between their seats and folds it around the john’s knee. Fine wool trousers ironed with a crease confirm the profile. “I’m real good with my mouth, you know...”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” the man says, but when he touches a hand to Steve's, it’s not to guide it to his crotch.

 

The cold slip of steel around his wrist is an ice-cold shower. Steve hears its click a half second too late and starts to pull back, but the guy’s gone and locked the other manacle around his own wrist.

 

“The fuck—“ Panic surges in his throat like bile, the blood draining from his face. “Let me go! You sick—sick fuck! Let me—go.“

 

The john keeps his eyes on the road. “Calm down.”

 

“Fuck you!” Steve thinks about punching him. He thinks about screaming for help. No one would get involved, though, not in this part of town. He tries to slide his hand out of the cuffs, but it’s no good; he may have skinny wrists, but his hands aren’t exactly tiny.

 

“Not much of a threat,” says the john. The car has stopped, Steve realizes as he’s yanked forward by the wrist. The john pries his keys out of the ignition with a metallic jangle. He’s going to pry Steve's eyes out, isn’t he? He’s going to rape him—

 

“Please—“ Steve doesn’t want to die here. He’ll do whatever the guy wants, the handcuffs aren’t needed. He knows better than to refuse a client.

 

They were going to have dinner tonight. Thor was going to cook and maybe Natasha would open that bottle of Merlot they bought last weekend. Steve bites back a sob, choking on that fast-slipping horizon. (Crying never puts them off. Some of them like it.)

 

It must not be what the john is looking to hear, because he sighs ponderously and jerks his chin towards the windshield. “Look outside.” Steve's belly feels hollow, like his insides have relocated to other parts of his body. His head’s in no better state. “Look outside,” the man tells him again, gently, like he’s slow. This time, Steve does.

 

The blue-and-red sirens that paint the hood should have tipped him off already. He’s not about to be raped and murdered like on so many episodes of CSI.

 

This is much, much worse.

 

*

 

Steve starts badly at the click of heels, bounding to his feet for the umpteenth time. From the corner of his eye, he catches Big El and Monique throwing him long, pitying looks. They introduced themselves as soon as Steve was processed: they’re regulars, old-time aficionados of the justice system. Big El even has his favorite cell. They’re decent folks; they’ve just got some problems. Monique has been offering Steve Tic Tacs from the tips of her orange-fuchsia nails, the closest thing she’s got to a treat. It almost doesn’t matter that she calls him _puppy_.

 

He must really look pathetic if they’re bribing him with breath mints. This time, though, the tail wagging is warranted.

 

“Oh, God, you came.” Steve grips the steel bars for support but his knees threaten to give out anyway. “I, um. Thank you. Thank you so much—I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

 

Natasha looks impeccable in a black pantsuit. The collar of a starched white shirt peeks through the lapels. Even Monique whistles an appreciative “dayum, gurl” which is pretty much what Steve would say if he could stop apologizing even for a second. (He can’t. He never wanted to do this to Natasha.)

 

The cop who arrested Steve looks almost drab at Natasha’s side. “You know this guy, Rushman? Looks a little old to be one of yours...”

 

“Not professionally,” Natasha says and purses her lips. “Are you going to put me out of my misery, Phil? My shoes are killing me here...”

 

And just like that, Steve is let out of his cage, his cheeks burning and his palms damp with sweat. He can’t look Natasha in the eye. “I’ll pay you back,” he coughs as soon as they’re out of the police station. “You didn’t have to post bail; I know it must’ve been a lot—“ He didn’t know until Monique told him, actually, but that’s just a detail. Natasha shouldn’t have to pay a dime. Steve's voice cracks a little in his throat. “I’m so sorry for dragging you down here. God, Tasha, I’m so—”

 

“Stop apologizing.” All too casually, Natasha slides an arm around his waist and gives his hip a little swat. They’re barely outside; people can _see_ them. “It’s not a big deal. I’m called down every week, sometimes more often than that. At least this time I knew what I was doing it for.”

 

“Why?” It’s been a long night and maybe he’s just slow, but he doesn’t get it. Why did the cop greet Natasha like an old friend? Why did he call her Rushman when she’s told Steve her last name is Romanov? Steve slows his steps until they’re at a standstill on the concrete steps. He disentangles himself from her arms—it’s too tempting to let her hold him and forget the mess he’s made. Natasha would let him. She’s good to him. _Too_ good. “I don’t understand,” Steve bites out.

 

“You think my boss is going to come down to bail out our clients when they get arrested for tagging public property?” Natasha arches a brow. “I’m a paralegal, Steve. If I’m not chasing down paperwork, I’m chasing down wayward kids.”

 

“Oh.” He’s been expecting something worse. For a few weeks in the beginning, he actually thought Natasha might be working for the mob. A law firm sounds a lot more realistic, if just as alien to his world. “Then... why the fake name? Why Rushman, instead of—“

 

“I changed my name when I was twenty-two,” Natasha says, brushing a stray ginger curl behind her ear. “People do that.”

 

“I know, but...” _Why?_

 

There’s no need to ask that out loud: “My dad was a deadbeat, my mom died when I was little. I wanted to be someone else for a while, someone more American than American, so I became Natalie Rushman. You can check my driver’s license if you don’t believe me. It’s not a cover, it’s my real name.”

 

“No, I believe you,” Steve hurries to say, like that’s going to make the Twenty Questions seem any less invasive. It’s obviously none of his business. “So, should I be calling you Natalie?”

 

“Why? No one else does. Thor tried for a while, but then he just started calling me Nat because he’d forget... Clint calls me Tasha. ‘Natalie’ never stuck, except it’s in all my official paperwork now—“

 

“—including your work.”

 

“Including my work,” Natasha echoes. “Be honest, were you hoping I worked for the CIA?”

 

Hoping is the wrong word. “Seemed like a possibility,” Steve mumbles. “That, or a superhero.”

 

Natasha flashes him a weary smile. “Oh please, I’d make a terrible Wonder Woman. Now... can we go home? I wasn’t kidding about these shoes being made of pain.” They’re red pumps with a thick heel, but as soon as they’re in the car, Natasha toes them off and drives barefoot. She looks a little harried, a little out of sorts. Steve spends the whole ride home keeping quiet and wondering if this will be the last straw. Not the jail thing so much as the fact that he offered himself up to a stranger. Didn’t Natasha ask him to quit? It’s one thing to tolerate him sleeping around because of a misunderstanding, but he deliberately went looking for clients this time. If the guy hadn’t been a cop, he would’ve gone through with it. He’s almost sure.

 

Steve waits until they’re parked and the key out is of the ignition to ask how much it set Natasha back to get him out.

 

“Three hundred.” Natasha rolls her shoulders into a shrug. “You’ll have to work lot of nights.”

 

It’s a delicate way to put it, like he’s just going to have to double his shifts or something, but Steve can read between the lines. He worries a loose thread in his jeans. Looking at Natasha out of the corner of his eye is all he can do to keep from being eaten alive by his wounded, wounding pride. “I don’t... what if I don’t want to?” He can’t keep abusing her generosity like this, but the thought of going back to screwing strangers makes his insides quake. It’s not just that he got a scare tonight. It’s more than that.

 

Natasha tilts her head, her expression studiously blank. “That’s your call, not mine.” It doesn’t sound like a line. Maybe Steve's just gotten in the habit of giving her the benefit of the doubt, but to his wretched ears, Natasha sounds like she means it. Bizarrely, that only makes it worse.

 

“Thought I was going to get shanked tonight,” Steve murmurs. He hates how that comes out, his voice so small and feeble. He wants to be strong for Natasha, to be a man. She deserves better than some wimp who got caught selling his ass on the street corner.

 

“Before or after Coulson tossed you into jail?”

 

“Before.” Afterwards, it was surreal. Steve can barely remember calling Natasha’s cell and leaving a message. When she didn’t pick up, he thought he’d spend the night in jail with the drunks and the drunk drivers cooling their heels. He didn’t expect her to show up and post his bail. The debt he owes her just keeps growing by the day. How can he expect Natasha to put up with so much? “Maybe we should—“

 

“That’s his shtick, you know,” Natasha interjects. “When Clint was at it, Coulson cuffed him to a radiator to prove a point. Bit unorthodox, if you ask me, but... it did the trick.”

 

“Clint was a hooker?” Steve's jaw just about hits the dash. Is this what he meant about being in Steve’s shoes?

 

Natasha flashes him a smirk. “He didn’t tell you? And he’s such a blabbermouth...” She tosses her head back a little, toying with a red curl. “We were going to run off to Montreal and find his folks, but we didn’t have any cash, so we figured we’d hitchhike. We ended up stealing a car at a gas station near Fort Edward after the driver got a little handsy with me. We almost made it, except we ran out of gas close to the border.” Her smile is wistful, soft; this isn’t an unhappy memory. “We weren’t the sharpest crayons in the box... Anyway, that’s when Clint got his Big Idea. He figured we could turn guys who wanted to cop a feel into a money-making venture. We wound up in a motel room with a guy with a gun and a badge... I nearly clawed Phil’s eyes out. Think that’s why I haven’t warmed to handcuffs since.” She stops. “You look surprised.”

 

“I’m not, I’m—yeah, okay.” Steve huffs out a breath. “You just look like you’re so... normal.”

 

“Thanks.” She reaches between their seats and Steve tries not to think about the parallels, about what he was prepared to do so he’d have the cash to pay his way. (Now he knows the john’s name; it doesn’t make it any better.) Their palms slot neatly together. “I didn’t tell the boys where you were tonight.”

 

A wave of tenderness washes over him, leaving Steve nearly breathless with twin eddies of surprise and guilt. One gnaws at his insides while the other pricks his eyes. _No tears_. Tears would be adding insult to injury. It’s just that he didn’t expect Natasha to lie for him. He’d never ask that and she shouldn’t feel like she needs to do it to protect him. Three hundred bucks is nothing compared to the strange, alien thought that someone has his back. Steve squeezes her fingers—an insufficient thank-you—and then relaxes his hold. He lets go before she does.

 

They can’t keep on like this. He knows what he has to do.

 

*

 

By the time he gets to the dresser, Steve already feels exhausted. He has gone through one too many closets, unearthed everything from toy trains to a drawer full of flavored condoms well past their ‘best by’ date. He’s exhausted and his knees ache from hauling boxes to the dumpster on the street corner. One more trip and it’ll be enough. He’ll be done.

 

He freezes in the doorway when he sees Peggy in her full nurse’s getup, hair pinned back in a loose ponytail. The last time she let herself into his apartment without his say-so, he hadn’t left for sixteen days. It’s different this time. She’s not here to pull him back from the edge.

 

“There you are.” She purses her lips. “You left the door open.”

 

“Not much to steal.” Steve strives for cool. He never quite mastered nonchalance when it comes to Peggy and it’s not today that he’ll succeed. “You, uh, you want something to drink?”

 

Peggy shoots him a long, disbelieving look, like he’s grown a second head. They both know his fridge is empty and that it’s been like that since Bucky. Steve's had no incentive to play house anymore. Not until recently. He watches her take another sweeping glance at the chaos around them, expression pinched, disapproving. Maybe even a little bit wary. He waits her out, until eventually Peggy sucks in a breath and says, “Looks like you’re moving out.”

 

“Yeah.” It’s something he should’ve told her about already, but he didn’t know how. Peggy has never been this mad for this long. Not with Steve. She never held his lack of backbone against him. (There’s a first for everything.)

 

She’s shooting daggers with her eyes when their gazes meet. “Are you moving in with her?”

 

Steve nods and thinks, _her name is Natasha_. “I’ve got a new job, too. Well, a couple—”

 

“Please tell me you’re not going to work for her.” The implication couldn’t be more obvious.

 

“No. No, definitely not... I mean,” Steve falters, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t know what to do at law firm, you know?” It’s not what Peggy meant and it’s not what he first thought, either, but it’s the truth.

 

Peggy arches her brows. “Your girl’s a lawyer?”

 

“Paralegal.” Not that it makes her any less awesome, but Steve has been lying for so long, making so many stupid mistakes that he wants to set the record straight. “She offered, but I didn’t want to embarrass her, so... I’m going to do nights at _El Trovador_. It’s—“

 

“I know where it is,” Peggy interjects.

 

“Right. They’re not letting me near the food, obviously, but they seemed to think I can wash dishes.” That’s almost true. Steve pushes on, scraping his scuffed Converse into the dusty floor. “Natasha’s roommate works there. He’s a sous-chef.” Thor recommended him, but even big as he is, he still can’t move mountains—or intransigent managers. Steve started last week and didn’t drop a single plate. It isn’t much, as big breaks go, but he thinks it could work out. “And I’m going to help with the bookkeeping at _Malachi’s_.” That one he found all by himself, though Clint put in a good word when the manager didn’t think Steve could cut it as a barkeep. “It’s not much, but...”

 

Peggy sighs, shaking her head. “It’s good.” She doesn’t say _at least you’re not selling your ass on the street_ , but Steve knows she’s thinking it. He’d be thinking it, in her shoes. “Why the sudden change? I’ve been trying to get you off the streets for—how many years has it been? Three?”

 

Two years, eight months and seventeen days. Steve's been keeping count. He shrugs, but doesn’t tell her he got arrested.

 

“Natasha must be some woman.” Is that an olive branch? Peggy puts a warm palm to his shoulder, gives him a little squeeze. “I’m happy for you. Just—try not to let your whole life revolve around her. If you ever need to get out, or take a break... my couch is yours.” That’s as mushy as Peggy is likely to get and it’s no surprise when she pulls away quickly, visibly uncomfortable with showing _too_ much affection. “I’ll let you get back to your packing, then...”

 

“Wait. Peggy?”

 

She stops, silhouetted in the doorway in a swath of blue scrubs and sensible, heelless shoes.

 

“I’m sorry.” Steve sucks in a breath. Apologies have never been his strongest suit; they involve staring the people you’ve hurt in the face and admitting what an asshole you are. Running is so much easier, but it won’t work this time. Steve scrubs a hand behind his neck. “I said some things I shouldn’t have. Stuff I don’t believe... And you were right about a lot of things, but it’s more complicated than that. Natasha’s awesome, you know? And I’m me.” He doesn’t think that qualifies as modesty. Peggy has eyes, she sees him for what he is. She must know that isn’t much.

 

Her sigh makes him wonder, though. As does the bittersweet smile that curves her lips. “You always were spectacularly good at putting other people first, Steve... I hope you’ll be happy with her. You deserve it.”

 

It sounds so final. “Thanks,” Steve murmurs, wishing he could think of something better to say. He wants Natasha, but he wants Peggy, too. She’s his last friend—his _only_ friend. It doesn’t seem right to have to trade one for the other, but maybe he doesn’t deserve to have both. Maybe that’s greedy. He turns away before she can see his eyes welling with tears. He wants to keep what little dignity he has left.

 

“Hey... do you need a hand with the boxes?” Peggy sounds no surer than he feels.

 

“Um. Yeah.” Steve hurries to wipe his eyes before he twists around, like that’s going to fool her. “Sure. If it’s not too much to ask...”

 

Peggy tosses her handbag to the sunken couch, one more artifact among many. “You’re not asking, I’m offering. Plus, I haven’t even brought you up to speed on Jim’s latest fixation. Did I tell you he has a pilot’s license?” Her volley only a little strained. They can’t go back to what they used to be, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

 

“No,” Steve says, “you haven’t.”

 

*

 

The front door creaks open slowly, the muffled lilt of Frank Sinatra’s _Love and Marriage_ giving way to silence and the sharp squint of a patented Tony Stark glare. Steve can’t help think it looked better on the cover of _Time_. In real life, Tony is a little scary, a little too close to eye-level. Steve instinctively takes a step back.

 

“Oh,” Tony says, “it’s you.” He couldn’t look less pleased to see Steve on his doorstep. A muscle in his jaw twitches tellingly. “What do you want?”

 

So much for saying _hi_ and _I’m sorry_ , all in the order he rehearsed in front of the mirror this morning. The speech is useless in the face of Tony’s blatant displeasure. Steve swallows hard and says, “You’re still mad.” Stating the obvious should be risk-free. It’s not.

 

Tony’s lips twist into a snarl. “Well spotted. Still doesn’t answer my question. If you’re looking for Bruce—”

 

“I’m not,” Steve hurries to say. “I just. I wanted to talk. To you.” He tells himself he’s only tongue-tied because he’s feeling guilty. Tony Stark has no right to make him feel nervous. (Sure, he can make Natasha’s life hell and, sure, Steve had sex with him about a month ago hoping to avoid that, but most of that was just Steve jumping to conclusions. Stark’s reach isn’t what it used to be.) He clears his throat. “Can I come in?”

 

For a moment, he almost thinks Tony’s going to make him say his piece right there in the corridor where everyone can hear, but eventually Tony pulls the door open wide and motions Steve inside with a sweeping gesture. Theatrics are par for the course and Steve can’t help feel he’s earned the punitive treatment. At least he’s in the apartment, the door snagging quietly shut behind him. It’s nothing to get excited about, but it’s better than a resolute _no, fuck off_.

 

“I’ve gotta say,” Tony drawls, “I’m feeling a little bit unloved. Where’s my Notebook-style kiss?”

 

Steve doesn’t know what to focus on first: that Tony watches Nicholas Sparks tearjerkers or that he wants to bring up what they did the last time he was here. Avoidance has always worked for Steve—and when it didn’t, he’s been very good about running away from things—and people—he couldn’t cope with. It’s why he digs his heels in when there’s a fight: he needs to make up for being such a coward. He lets the question slide: “I’ve moved in. With Natasha.”

 

An eye roll. Tony folds his arms across his chest. “No shit, Sherlock.”

 

“She told you?” It’s not a betrayal. Natasha has been friends with Bruce for some time.

 

Tony snorts. “Yeah and then we braided each other’s hair and talked about boys.” He cants his head with a ponderous sigh, the picture of disdain. “Get to the point, Steve.” _Before I release the hounds_.

 

Okay, that might be a bit much. Tony is as far from Mr. Burns as could be, it’s just that when he gets nervous Steve has to find some way to temper his galloping pulse. He’s already tried flirtation; it’s why Tony’s looking at him like he’s lower than pond scum. And hitting people because they won’t forgive and forget just isn’t on. At least Tony is angry with him; being confronted with sweet, understanding, polite Bruce Banner was just—weird.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, biting the bullet. “I’m really sorry. I never meant to.” He catches himself. It’s a lie: everything he did with and to Tony and Bruce, he did because he meant it. He just did it for the wrong reasons. “That is, I did, but it wasn’t _about_ you... I misunderstood what— _why_ Natasha and I were... you know, together.” As opposed to shacking up while Natasha was between boyfriends. Steve ducks his head. “I haven’t really had girlfriends before, so I sort of. I got it wrong and now she’s giving me a second chance and I’m going to be living just down the hall and I really don’t want you and Bruce to hate me.”

 

It takes a long, long beat of Tony watching him make a fool of himself before he gets an answer. It’s not the one he expects. “Bruce,” Tony murmurs, “isn’t here.”

 

“You’ve already said that,” Steve scoffs. This doesn’t change the fact that he conned them both into doing something they wouldn’t otherwise have done.

 

Tony walks a clean half circuit around him, too far to touch or strike. It’s mildly disconcerting, like Steve has been cast as the prey to Tony’s predator. “Good,” Tony breathes, “because Bruce and Natasha are too close and he’ll never say this to you...”

 

“Say what?” Steve’s not sure he wants to know, but unknown threats are always the more dangerous. At least, when it’s the evil that you know—

 

“You’re never going to pull a stunt like that again,” Tony says, very slow, very measured. There’s no threat, but Steve gets it: this is how a man gets to run a company when he’s just fresh out of college. This is how he takes on an entire board of directors and shatters his father’s legacy in the face of widespread media condemnation. This Tony Stark is fucking scary. “Are we clear?”

 

Steve nods.

 

“Swell.” Tony clamps a hand to his shoulder. “If that’s all—“

 

“How does it work?” Steve hears himself ask. This might not be the best time for a heart-to-heart, but it’s been on his mind and there’s no one else he can ask. If Tony isn’t going to hold a grudge, then he can tell him. He can help. (Whether he’ll want to go there, what with the history between them, is another story.)

 

Tony doesn’t shove him away, though his brows furrow, suspicion writ plain across his face. “How does what work?”

 

“You and Bruce.” It sounds a little ridiculous, when put like that, but then the whole thing is. Steve can’t remember the last time he asked about someone’s sex life; johns don’t come to him because they need someone to talk to and it’s probably for the best. Hard to feel sorry about the guy you have to fuck so you don’t get evicted.

 

“I don’t follow,” Tony says, a little too slowly to be the truth. His hand falls away.

 

He’s going to make Steve say it, isn’t he? If this is all the payback he is to suffer, it’s not that bad. “Natasha gave me a book,” Steve mumbles, “about dominance and, um submission. Stuff like that.” He shouldn’t feel embarrassed talking about it, least of all to Tony. “I don’t know anyone else who’s involved in that kind of stuff, so I thought... I don’t know. I want to try it. Natasha likes it a lot and, um—“

 

“She wants you to submit to her.” Trust Tony to get right down to the essential.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, relieved that he doesn’t have to spell it out.

 

“And you want to do it.”

 

“Yes,” Steve says again. It should be obvious. He’s not sure that it is, not after the last time that he and Tony were in the same room together.

 

Tony cocks his head. “So why the hell are you asking me for pointers? She’s the one you’re dating, kid. Ask her.”

 

“I really wish you’d stop calling me that.” But Tony is already walking away, his bare feet slapping the floor as he marches into the kitchen. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but Steve's too incensed to puzzle it out. He gives chase instead, saying “It’s not that simple. Natasha’s—Natasha is _important_.“

 

He finds Tony doing something complicated with a French press. The kitchen is a mess, paint brushes and tweezers piled in haphazard heaps. On the kitchen table, Steve spies a half-finished action figure, its bulky suit flecked with gold and red. It’s an Iron Man toy, except it’s not like any toy Steve has ever seen before. It looks like it might actually be made of metal. Tony startles him out of his gawking: “Did Natasha win the Nobel Peace Prize when I wasn’t looking?”

 

Right. They were arguing.

 

“She knows what she’s doing,” Steve protests. “I don’t. And I thought,” deep breath, “that you could maybe tell me what to do so I don’t fuck it all up. Again. I like her.”

 

“Did no one ever told you the course of true love never tends to run smooth?”

 

It’s Steve's turn to be deadpan: “Someone did. He died.” For once there’s no lie to stand between him and the flash of pity he sees in Tony’s gaze. “At least... at least help me with the acronyms.”

 

“What, RACK and shit?” Tony grins. “Yeah, those can be pretty eye-catching. ‘course you don’t actually seem to understand what consent means, so the point is moot.” He plucks two mugs out of the dishwasher and brings them to the table. Steve decides that’s as good as an invitation to stick around, even if it means he has to inhale paint fumes while Tony mocks him mercilessly.

 

“I understand consent.” Just because he didn’t know he had any when he went to bed with Tony and Bruce doesn’t mean he doesn’t. “No means no, right?”

 

Tony brings the coffee over, smirking. “Except when it means yes. Or ‘please, do go on while I scream my fucking lungs out.’ I do that a lot. But let’s not quibble at the details, kid, let’s reexamine the premise. You want to do this—why? I would’ve thought if anyone had had enough of being pushed around, it would be you.”

 

“Because I’m a hooker or because I’m a wimp?” Steel slides into Steve's voice. Maybe asking Tony for help wasn’t the best idea, but that doesn’t mean he’s fair game to be insulted.

 

“Touchy, touchy... Relax, kid, I only meant—”

 

Steve doesn’t know he’s doing it until his hand has already shot out and seized Tony’s wrist. The French press quakes perilously between them. “Stop calling me kid,” he growls and every word is meant. ( _They take and they take until there’s nothing left and when Steve looks for sympathy, all he finds is Bucky staring blankly over his shoulder, consumed with invisible ghosts in the middle distance; Bucky’s hushed voice repeating “I killed them. I killed them.”_ )

 

“When you get to be my age,” Tony says, “‘kid’ tends to become a compliment... _Steve_.”

 

He lets go. Apology surges to his tongue like bile. He forces it back down as Tony goes back to pouring their coffee.

 

“You’ve read about me, right? You know what a train wreck my love life’s been, yeah? So you probably also know I’m a shit Yoda. Why not just—go online, look at some porn. You know, like normal people do?”

 

Steve shrugs. “I have. Couldn’t relate. Natasha doesn’t call me a sissy boy, she hasn’t made fun of me for sucking cock yet... If that’s what dominance is about, then I’m not interested. It’s just that... when I was with you and Bruce, it seemed like maybe it wasn’t all taunts and leather corsets?”

 

“It’s not,” Tony confirms, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, unless you’re into that sort of thing.” Steve tries not to blush under Tony’s scrutiny. He knows he’s failed when Tony’s jaw seems to drop, bushy brows creeping up. “Oh. Well. That, um... The corsets, really? I would’ve figured you for a garter fan.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“No, no...” Tony grins from ear to ear. “I can work with that.”

 

There are probably very few things in life more imprudent than becoming Tony Stark’s pet project, but Steve feels a stupid thrum of excitement bloom in his belly all the same. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Natasha’s exasperation is practically seeping through the door. Steve can hear her pacing outside. “Just a minute.”

 

“You said that half an hour ago,” Natasha sighs. “Steve, if you’re not sure, we can just—“

 

“We really can’t,” he says, mostly to his own reflection. It’s now or never. Steve leans on the door handle and steps out of the bathroom. It’s a gamble. If she doesn’t like it, Steve can always take it off. They need never mention this again. But if she doesn’t mind—even Steve's dirtiest daydreams haven’t gotten that far, too fraught with nerves to venture into what could be.

 

Natasha is notoriously hard to read, but standing there in front of her in only a red corset and a pair of silk blue underwear, Steve can’t help chafing under the silence. “Too much?” he breathes, over the sound of his racing heartbeat and the panic roiling in his belly. Tony said to just try it, to not be such a fraidy-cat. On second thought, Tony was probably trying to get back at him.

 

“Those are mine.” Natasha traces a finger over the tiny scrap of material stretched taut over Steve's cock. “But this isn’t—“ Her palm is warm through the satin corset, but Steve quivers anyway.

 

"Seventy-nine ninety-nine at Macy's." He knows he's blushing, face hot and aching from trying to conceal a nervous smile. "The ladies were very nice but I, uh, I've never felt more like a pervert in my life." He told them it was for his girlfriend. It's not entirely untrue.

 

Natasha walks her fingertips up his flanks to the slanted top edge. "It's missing something."

 

"It is?" Steve bought it with an eye for the price tag more than the fit. He had a hard enough time tying the laces on his own in the dressing room. If he has to take it back, he'll be mortified.

 

All the fretting keeps him busy as Natasha busies herself with a drawer in the nightstand. That's where she keeps the vast majority of her toys, but Steve doesn't see what she's got in store for him this time until she's stepping towards him, metal chain in hand. He can't help but notice that each end is linked to a silver, vicious-looking claw. He's got a pretty good idea of what they're for before Natasha scrapes the tips against his nipples.

 

"You want?"

 

Steve shivers. "Yes." He fights the instinctive sway of his body as Natasha secures the claws into place. It's harder to conceal a pained hiss as his sensitive nipples are compressed and squeezed to full hardness. There's no sharp, piercing sting, though, no need to worry that he'll get blood all over the corset. The clamps are sheathed in vinyl, so they don’t cut into the skin.

 

"There," Natasha murmurs, hooking a hand behind his neck. "You almost look ready."

 

"A-almost?" Steve could die. He swallows hard, trying not to stagger into her arms. "Please tell me you don't have one of those for my penis."

 

Natasha laughs. "Not if you don't want me to. But remind me to show you what I can do with clothespins someday. I’ll blow your mind... if you ever feel like it." She makes it sounds so easy, so casual. Steve relaxes a little; Natasha’s fingers in his hair help. "I want to tie your ankles together. Is that okay?"

 

Steve is nodding before she's done asking. "Yeah. Yes. I'll probably trip," he adds, "but if you don't mind that..."

 

"I'll catch you," Natasha promises, liberating a pair of ankle cuffs and an adjustable spreader bar. Steve knows that one. They've used it before. He waits to be told to get on the bed or to kneel, but Natasha leaves him standing as she kneels to attach the cuffs. He can only see the top of her head, red curls neatly combed, and the back of her neck where the shirt collar offers just a peek at her milky-white skin. She's flushed. She always flushes there when she's aroused.

 

The click of the spreader bar keeps Steve from feeling too smug.

 

He doesn't wait for Natasha to tell him to open his legs. He knows this pose: his skinny legs and the skinny, stiff bar form a perfect triangle. His thighs shake with the sharp flick of tension. Steve understands that Natasha wants him splayed and upright, trying not to fall. If he wobbles, it's not because of nerves. "Can I hold on to the dresser?" He can reach it with his fingertips if he stretches. He only asks because he's afraid he's about to fall on his ass.

 

"No." Natasha doesn't often deny him. Steve watches her rises slowly, tossing back her hair. Did he just screw up? Her smile is warm, though, a far cry from disappointed. "—but you can hold on to me." She sets his hands at her waist and Steve discovers that he's lost about ten inches in height; that Natasha now towers over him.

 

He feels overwhelmed when their lips meet, fingers clenching in her shirt because she's his only anchor. It should be a lot scarier to put himself entirely in her hands. It's not. Natasha kisses him softly, like the first time, and Steve can't bite back his moans.

 

Natasha titters. "You're hard for me already. I can feel your cock against my thigh... I suppose I should say I can feel your cock in my _panties_ , at that. Do you like wearing my underwear, Steve?"

 

"Yes." There's no point in denying it; he's so hard he's aching for want of friction—and Natasha knows it.

 

"Do you want me to fuck you like this?" She hooks a finger in the chain that dangles over his corset. The sharp tug forces a startled gasp out of Steve's lungs. It hurts, it hurts a lot, but he also wants more. Of course, that's when Natasha relents. Her hand drops away. "Talk to me, Steve. What's the fantasy?"

 

Steve licks his lips, shivering with want. "Anything. Anything you say." Tony warned him against giving anyone a blank check, but Tony isn't here and frankly Steve can't imagine denying Natasha.

 

He knows he's got it wrong when she clucks her tongue at him and pulls back a fraction. "Are you going to be difficult? We both know I can make you beg."

 

It's a rookie mistake. Steve opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, when Natasha presses two fingers just past his lips.

 

"Suck," she tells him, voice hard. There's no thought of refusing. Steve hollows his cheeks and swirls his tongue around her fingers as he would a cock. He can make it good. He can put on a show.

 

His hold on Natasha's flanks starts to slip, but he doesn't fall because she has him pinned, one arm around his waist, palm kneading at his hip. He gets it now. She wants to open him up with her fingers. Steve shivers in anticipation. It took all he had not to prep himself in the bathroom. He knows Natasha likes doing it herself.

 

"Bend over and grab hold of the bed post." The words are harsh, bossy, but Natasha doesn't push him around; she knows he's got no sense of balance ever since they tried to fuck in the shower and Steve nearly broke his neck. Her spit-slick fingertips help him into place.

 

The touch of a hand to the back of his neck is soothing as well as grounding. He's here because he wants to be, because he got the guts to tell Natasha he missed having sex with her. He can almost pretend his hands weren't shaking the whole time as he was typing the text message.

 

"Tasha?"

 

The slip-slide of her fingertips down his cleft stops immediately. "Yes?"

 

Steve has never been happier that a partner can't see his flaming cheeks, but he has to get this out or he'll regret it. "I liked it when... when Bruce spanked me. I liked it a lot."

 

"Did you." It's not a question. Natasha comes around to crouch beside him. "What did he use?"

 

"Just his hand." His big, broad hand. Steve wishes he could stop thinking about it.

 

"Of course he did," Natasha snorts. "Traditionalist." Her smile softens a little. "That what you want, Steve? I've got a flogger with your name on it."

 

"Really?"

 

"Yeah. Nice and red, just like your corset..."

 

It's stupid to feel heat blossom in his chest at the compliment, or to shake in anticipation as Natasha goes to retrieve the toy. It must be, but Steve does it anyway, craning his neck to watch her progress. She's still wearing her office clothes, though her shirt is open down to her navel and Steve can see the burgundy red of her bra. Maybe she'll let him kiss her there. Maybe she'll let him undress her all the way, that would pretty much make his day.

 

The flogger is short and harmless-looking when she brings it over. "Ever use one of these before?"

 

Steve shakes his head.

 

"Okay. I'll go slow. Just your ass, the backs of your thighs... If it's too much, tell me. Try not to reach back. I don't want to hit your hands."

 

He nods. He trusts her to know what she's doing, to not get mad if he screws up--a likely thing, considering how exposed and how needy he feels.

 

The first stroke catches him square across the left cheek. Steve rocks forward with the impact, but there's only so far he can go when his legs are tethered to each other. Natasha strokes her fingers into the stinging flesh. "Too much?"

 

"N-no. Keep going." It's a good pain. He remembers Bruce being able to draw the same shiver of want to the surface. At least this time there's no guilt to accompany it.

 

Natasha strikes him again, a flick of the wrist that Steve only sees out of the corner of his eye. She's going easy on him, just like she promised, but that doesn't mean the buffeting lashes don't leave an impact. Steve rises up on tiptoe, breaths knifing in and out of his lungs, blood rushing to his head as he waits, as he howls--and everything stops. Natasha presses the braided hilt of the flogger against his cleft, holding it there for a long moment.

 

"More," Steve hears himself choke. "Please, more--"

 

He cries out as the flogger strikes him across the shoulders. Natasha's angle is poor, but Steve knows instinctively to bow his head, so the sharp, swishing leather only swats the wings of his shoulders. He's almost sorry he wore the corset because his spine is covered, the impact muffled by the curved metal bones and the satin sheath.

 

"I can--you can take it off," he starts to say, but Natasha smacks his ass with her palm and he forgets to beg her to hit him higher. Harder.

 

His panties are soaked by the time Steve sneaks a hand between his legs to relieve the pressure on his cock. He knows he shouldn't, but discomfort wins out over self-control and he can't help himself.

 

He knows he shouldn't have done it when Natasha jerks him back against her by the shoulders and asks, "Did I give you permission to touch yourself?"

 

Steve shakes his head. He can feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest. His cock is still in his fist, leaking precome all over his fingers. He's never been more excited in his life. So naturally, that's when his hip cramps with a vengeance.

 

"Red," he grits out, the safeword rolling off his tongue like a slur. "Red, red—oh, crap."

 

Natasha steadies him as best she can, but it's hard work to get him to the bed when his legs aren't cooperating. They manage it and Steve lands in a graceless heap as Natasha hurries to remove the spreader bar. She's already on the cuffs by the time Steve can stop her.

 

"Wait, hang on."

 

"What do you need?" Natasha remains crouched and Steve may be slow when it comes to other things, but he recognizes the attempt for what it is: she's trying not to spook him. A wave of tenderness washes over him. A month ago, it might've been guilt.

 

"Muscle cramp." Natasha frowns, uncomprehending, so Steve amends quickly: "I had a muscle cramp. Not your fault."

 

"Oh." That's another thing he's learned to appreciate about Natasha—she takes his answers at face value, rising quickly and grabbing for the pillows to help to make him more comfortable. "I thought it was the Mean Girls talk..."

 

Steve grins. "I like it when you're mean."

 

“Where does it hurt?”

 

“Are you going to play sexy nurse?”

 

The look Natasha levels at him is both amused and a little bit disbelieving. "My hip," Steve tells her, sheepish. "It's my, um, arthritis. I'm pretty sure. It's no big deal."

 

"Bullshit. What do you need?" Natasha has joined him on the bed, her palm warm over the troublesome muscle. Steve doesn't realize he's leaning into her hold until his ass presses more forcefully against the bed and he has to suck in a breath.

 

Natasha makes to pull away.

 

"No, keep—that’s good, keep doing that. Maybe you could, um, stroke it a little?" Steve tries hard not to laugh; he feels dizzy, pain and pleasure competing for his attention until he can't decide which one to pick.

 

"That doesn't sound at all like porn," Natasha laughs, but the pressure of her hands on his hip deepens, her strokes long and careful of the aching flesh. Steve sucks in a breath, because yeah, it hurts. It hurts the same way that getting flogged hurt: sweetly, reassuringly. Like Natasha knows just when to pull back and when to give him more.  (She can't. She's just a girl who sometimes forgets the microwave running, who hates doing the dishes, but that doesn't change the fact that Steve is persuaded she has his number.)

 

Steve cants his head back into the pillows. "I'm sorry I stopped you."

 

"Don't be. We can take a break, do something else... You got all dressed up for me."

 

His cheeks flushing hotly, Steve bites his lips to conceal a grin. "Do you really like it?" He's distantly aware of the nipple clamps squeezing his flesh, of Natasha's hands stroking down the inside of his thigh. She palms him through the silk panties, lazily working her fingers against his hole from the front.

 

"Of course I do," Natasha tells him, like it's obvious. "We should try garters next time, too. Have you ever worn heels?"

 

There are boys on his street corner who wear women's clothing. Some of them show up in heels and miniskirts, their mouths painted red with lipstick. Steve used to watch them and wonder that they weren't afraid. They're probably still there, Steve thinks, trading their bodies for pocket change while he's here, dressing up for fun.

 

"You okay?"

 

Natasha shifts to lie beside him, her fist lax around his dick. She's so warm and soft; even her jagged edges are familiar to him now, a welcome reminder that Natasha isn't as perfect as he once thought. She's just a girl.

 

"You don't think this is—I don't know, weird? I'm wearing your underwear..."

 

"Looks better on you," Natasha answers with a shrug. "What do you want from me, Steve? To tell you you're not manly enough? To say this freaks me out?" She smirks, swinging her leg across his hips and grinding into his thigh. Were it not for her wool pants, he'd feel the heat of her cunt against him. It's a heady proposition. "I get wet just thinking about you."

 

Steve feels like the air's been punched out of him. "You do?"

 

"Duh." Slowly, as though mindful of his aching hipbone, Natasha levers herself up and into his lap. "Did you know... I went through a phase when I only wore Clint's shirts. I'd even steal his boxer shorts. And if you really want to talk about manly, did you know Bruce practiced sounding on himself?" She takes Steve by the shoulders and pushes him down into the pillows. "You spend way too much time worried about 'supposed to.' Live a little."

 

For now, that translates more to 'watch a little,' as Natasha unbuttons her shirt with deft fingers and Steve can only look on, mouth suddenly gone dry.

 

"You—you're so beautiful." Steve can't stop himself speaking.

 

Natasha pries off her bra like an afterthought. It's too careless for a skin flick, too quick for a striptease.

 

"So are you," Natasha murmurs. "Be a good boy and don't move while I take off the rest?"

 

Steve groans, but he's come this far. He forces his hands to the bedding as Natasha shimmies out of her pants and underwear, as she rolls down her knee-length stockings off her feet. Everything lands on the floor, a pile of shed skin and artifice that's no more Natasha than the corset is Steve. He only breathes a little easier when she crawls back onto the bed and tugs his silk panties aside with her thumb. They’re more like the suggestion of underwear than anything worthy of the name.

 

"Do I get a treat?" Steve probes, licking his lips. He wants to be a part of this, to encourage her, insofar as Natasha needs his input to go on.

 

Rather than answer, Natasha reaches a hand into the bedside drawer and pulls out a condom. It's not what Steve was expecting and definitely not what he meant, but he doesn't stop her tearing the foil or rolling the latex sheath over his cock. They've talked about getting tested before and Steve's still waiting on his last batch of results; until then, they've agreed that Natasha should use condoms if she wants to blow him—and the same goes for any other people Steve may or may not sleep with.

 

But Natasha doesn't settle between his thighs to suck him off like she's done a dozen times before. Steve watches, enthralled, as she straddles his hips and rubs herself against his dick. _Oh_ _,_ _sweet Jesus_. Steve can't look away from her cunt. Her labia parts for him, the pebbled nub of her clitoris just visible when she holds herself open with one hand. It's the most incredible sight. Steve is pretty amazed he hasn't come already.

 

"Don't forget to breathe," Natasha teases, her voice dark with promise.

 

Steve's very witty and very breathy 'speak for yourself' never makes it out because Natasha is suddenly sinking down, onto his length, taking him inside, and Steve has to claw the sheets for purchase or risk doing something stupid—like burst into tears. It’s not that they’ve never done it like this, but Natasha usually prefers to be the one doing the fucking and she tends to be very, very good at it. Steve can’t help a sharp thrust, hips tensing with the urge to drive himself in faster than she’ll allow.

 

It only earns him a sharp, musical laugh and Natasha's fingers in his hair. "Greedy boy," she chides. "Do that again."

 

Steve can't look away. He tries to obey, but Natasha is completely in his lap now, every inch of him inside her, and when he struggles to press up, her thighs hold him captive against the bed. She drags him back by the hair like he’s an unruly pup, and Steve wheezes, desperate to move.

 

"Please, Tasha. Please, oh—"

 

Natasha folds a hand into the chain between his nipples, short-circuiting all rational thought. Steve can't make out if that's punishment or reward, if Natasha is doing it to taunt him, because his body is already arching up and off the bed, seeking relief. The corset twists around him, laces scraping the sheets; he should've gone for a smaller size, but the ladies at the counter told him it had to be ordered and Steve's less than sure that he would've had the nerve to go for something bespoke. (And even less sure he'd have worn it if it set him back more than eighty bucks.)

 

He shivers when Natasha pins a hand to his belly, chain still clutched in her fist, and straightens. "Can I touch you?" Steve chokes out. They don't have rules as such, but Steve knows what Natasha likes—permission to put his hands on her is all about control and Natasha retaining the lion's share of it. Steve thinks he gets it, even through the haze of lust and need, and the pounding pulse beat of blood in his ears. He gets it. Natasha needs this, too.

 

"Where do you want to touch me?" Natasha asks, with only the faintest hitch in her voice as she grinds down hard on his cock.

 

"Your—your thighs," Steve purrs and when she nods, his fingers quickly slide over her skin, stroking from the knee up until her own hand stops his progress.

 

Natasha licks her lips. "Where else?"

 

"Here," Steve offers, thumb skimming down her mound in an unsubtle caress.

 

"Say it."

 

His cheeks burn, but he can't shy away from this. He's kissed her there often enough, licking and sucking her clit until she came all over his chin. "Your pussy."

 

Natasha rocks her hips with a sharp, "God, yes," as if she's been waiting for that. Maybe she has. Her mind games are sometimes hard to puzzle out—either that, or Steve is a little bit slow.

 

It would be easier if she just told him where to put his fingers, how to stroke and touch her, but Natasha gives him free rein, her hitching breaths just about the only indication when he gets something right. He can feel his cock brush his knuckles. It's a heady thing, to know that he's inside her, pleasing her both within and without.

 

"Is that all?"

 

Steve's breaths short out. "I don't—what more can I do? What do you need?" He can barely see straight, but Natasha isn't giving him nearly enough friction to get off—and she definitely hasn't granted him permission—none of which matters if he's falling short. His fingers circle her clit in sloppy circles, pinching it with slick fingers, something that only works until Natasha tugs on the chain bound to the clamps and Steve's every attempt stutters with the sharp sting.

 

"Up." It's the kind of command that doesn't allow hesitation. Steve pins back a hand, then the other, shaking as he struggles to sit up. He keeps expecting Natasha to release the chain, but she doesn't, she only pulls and pulls until she's satisfied he's in the right position, obeying her as quickly and as eagerly as she wants. "You're going to bring me off, Steve."

 

"Yes. God, please, I want to—"

 

"Put your mouth on me," Natasha says and a little tension on the chain is enough to curve Steve's back as he bends to put his mouth to her breast. He'd be lying if he said he hasn't thought of this a lot in weeks past, when all the sleeping they did together involved snoring. Natasha's nipples are erect and dusky, and she moans so prettily when Steve's tongue lashes the sensitive flesh. Her hips stutter into stillness and Steve almost thinks—but no, that would be too easy. He doesn't want easy. He wants whips and paddles and Natasha's hand in his hair, telling him how to drive her that much closer to the edge.

 

He even welcomes her fingers around his wrist, her unapologetic grip guiding his hand back to her cunt. The thought of her fucking herself on him is enough to leave him dizzy with want, but then it's happening, it's so much better than a daydream and Steve is part of it, he's there with Natasha as she races towards her peak.

 

Natasha doesn't cry out when she comes, but her cunt grips Steve's cock all the tighter, milking him. Steve curls his toes stubbornly, helplessly, trying to stave off the urge to follow. He doesn’t bother choking off a loud, gasping moan; it’s way outside his reach to try. And if he bites her nipple a little harder in retribution, Natasha doesn't seem to mind. She only breathes out long and shaky against his temple, the scent of her intoxicating when Steve brings his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean.

 

There's no need to despair. Natasha always gives him what he needs. She's not about to leave him hanging—which isn't to say Steve doesn't groan and whimper a little as she slides off his lap, her flushed skin glossy with sweat in the orange-yellow lamplight.

 

"Please," he bites out. "Please let me come."

 

He's read all about orgasm denial in that book Natasha gave him and Tony seemed to suggest it can be enjoyable, but Steve feels like his heart is about to give out if he doesn't get off, the worst case of blue balls he's ever had plaguing him as Natasha leisurely parts his legs.

 

"You think you've earned it?" She runs her hand over his cock, pulling it away from his belly.

 

Steve whimpers. It won't do as a reply. "Yes,” he grits out. “Yes, please--"

 

"I think so, too." Natasha leaves the condom on. Steve is glad. The corset is new; he doesn't want to get it all dirty.

 

"You're close, aren't you?" Natasha strokes his dick with a leisurely hand, thumb scraping the cockhead as she reaches for his wrist. "Why don't you show me how you touch yourself, Steve?" she asks, voice low, and Steve knows it's a challenge, that her hand is only gentle because she wants him to do this for himself.

 

He doesn't hesitate even for a moment. His own grip is familiar and somehow insufficient, but at least Natasha doesn’t stop him this time. He can feel release building at the base of his spine, a warm, bubbling supernova about to scorch everything in its path. His eyes squeeze shut—what if she has him pause again? What if she's changed her mind?

 

All his disquiet proves unfounded. Natasha's caresses only map out his flanks, the sharp slant of his collarbones.

 

Steve throws back his head and presses a hand to the mattress. "Tasha," he bites out. "Tasha, I'm coming—"

 

It’s so good, it’s everything he wanted, at least until she pulls off the clamps and the blood surges back into his nipples.

 

Steve cries out with the agony of it, with the sudden force of his orgasm; there's no way Clint and Thor, and possibly the neighbors, can fail to hear him.

 

"Oh, fuck," he pants. "Oh, Jesus—God! Please."

 

Natasha presses her fingertips to his tender, bruised flesh, squeezing and pinching until Steve's squirming becomes less about throwing her off and more about prolonging the sweet, sweet ache. How can it be so painful an so good at the same time? He's completely wrung out by the time she finally leaves off, his whole body shaking and shaking.

 

"That was so sexy," Natasha whispers, stretching over him like some feline creature. The scrape of her nipples against his is agony, but Steve welcomes the throbbing. He's growing to appreciate the fine knife's edge of sensation between one moment and the next, even if exhaustion seems to rule him in the aftermath.

 

There are no rules, once it's over. Steve can put his arms around Natasha and not fear that she's got other ideas. He only barely manages to let her dispose of the condom before he gets too clingy.

 

"How did you ever get this laced up on your own?" Natasha asks, holding him with one hand as the other works the corset undone.

 

"Practiced," Steve says, too tired to help. "In the mirror."

 

Natasha chuckles. "You little freak." It’s the kind of thing Steve has heard people call each other in porn, but Natasha makes it sound like a compliment and Steve actually finds himself preening like an idiot under the attention. Maybe it’s stupid to crave her approval to this extent, maybe she’ll let him down, but in the here and now, Steve can’t force himself to think of contingencies. This is where he belongs.

 

“Tasha?”

 

“Hmm?” Her eyes are closed, body warm and relaxed against his. Even her fingers have ceased combing through his hair.

 

If Steve were a better man, he’d leave her to her rest, but he’s not. The thought’s niggling at the back of his mind, stubborn and relentless; if he doesn’t ask her, he’ll have to ask Tony and Tony is about as reliable as a career politician. Half of his answers seem to be riddles, the rest are not entirely unsuccessful attempts to needle Steve into frustration. “What’s... what’s, um, sounding like?”

 

He knows _what_ it is, the book Natasha gave him has proven wonderfully exhaustive, but there’s a big difference between reading about something and trying it out. Case in point: getting flogged sounded pretty unpleasant when Steve reached that chapter, but the ache in his shoulders and hips has dulled to a pleasant numbness by now. Steve thinks it’s something he might like to try again.

 

“Ask Bruce,” Natasha drawls sleepily. “I’ve never done it.”

 

Steve ducks his head, plants his lips to her collarbone and murmurs, “I don’t think I should ask Bruce anything.” Not after what he did. He still hasn’t worked up the nerve to apologize.

 

Something in his tone must tip Natasha off, because she nudges him a little, forcing him to meet her gaze. “He’s not mad at you. He was... I’m sure he was hurt. I was, too, but Bruce tends to be a lot more forgiving than I am.” _And I got over it_ , she seems to imply. Like it’s that easy.

 

“Tony wouldn’t like it,” Steve hedges. The threat of retribution still hangs over him like a Damocles sword.

 

“You’re taking advice from Stark now? Oh, Steve... Wait.” Natasha’s brows arch on her pale forehead. “Is that what gave you the idea of the corset in the first place?”

 

Steve wishes she’d let him hide, but they probably need to get this out into the open, too. Tony is after all their neighbor. And Bruce’s partner. Sooner or later, it will come up. “Don’t be mad,” Steve pleads, “I needed to talk to someone.”

 

“I’m not mad,” Natasha scoffs. “I’m just—a little surprised that you went to Tony of all people. My money was on Thor.”

 

“He’s not—is he?”

 

“Into this stuff? What do you think?”

 

Steve thought he wasn’t. Thor is sweet and he likes video games. He makes Steve pancakes in the morning and always insists on piling a second helping onto his plate. Thor is also Natasha’s high school boyfriend. “He never—“ Steve catches himself. “I mean, I’m glad he didn’t. I bet if he spanked me, I’d be left with bruises as big as saucepans.” The prospect is not nearly as off-putting as it should be.

 

Natasha must sense it, because she smiles, her fingers tracing down his cheek. “I taught him better than that. For what it’s worth, though, Thor doesn’t really like the hardcore stuff. I’m sure he enjoyed whatever you two did together.” Even now, she’s trying to absolve Steve of any fault.

 

She shouldn’t have to.

 

“Do you—I mean, you’ve never asked about any of that.” Probably for good reason, but Steve has to ask: “Do you want to know?”

 

“Do you want to tell me?”

 

If there’s a right answer, Steve doesn’t know it. He only knows that he did those things with Natasha in mind. “Yeah.” She should know. Someone should know.

 

They break apart slowly. Natasha drops a hand to the bed, stretching her long legs with a sigh. “Start with Tony.”

 

“Why?” He would’ve thought Natasha would be curious about Clint first and foremost.

 

“He’s the only one I haven’t been with,” Natasha tells him, her grin wide and knowing. “What, did you think you’re the only one with stories to tell?”


	9. Chapter Nine

Bruce welcomes them in with a tentative smile. He looks like he’s two steps away from bolting. Steve's been wondering which one of them would feel more anxious; now he knows. It's too late to turn back, though, so when Natasha steps away, her lipstick still smudged on Bruce's cheek, Steve follows her example and puts his arms around Bruce in an awkward little hug. He feels more than hears Bruce's soft gasp of surprise.

 

"Is this okay?" Steve mumbles into a paisley-sheathed shoulder. He knows he's supposed to do it the other way around, to ask permission first, but sometimes it's easier to beg forgiveness after the fact.

 

(Not always, not with something like this.)

 

The gentle stroke of fingers through his hair puts paid to that theory. "Yeah," Bruce breathes. "We're good." He releases Steve slowly, looking a bit more settled as he glances over to Natasha. By now Steve is used to taking his cues from her, but he doesn't expect Bruce to do the same. "We already got started. Tony couldn't wait."

 

"He's always been insatiable," Natasha says, smirking. There's something soft in her gaze when she asks, "Are we still on?" like it's not just a matter of holding to a deal once made, but of reminding Bruce that he's got a way out if he wants to take it.

 

Steve thought it was the other way around, that Bruce was her mentor, the older boyfriend who initiated Natasha into the wonderland of whips and chains and anal beads, but maybe that's a little cliché. Natasha is more than capable of corrupting herself and others if she wants to. She doesn’t need pointers.

 

"We're still on... if you're okay with it?" Bruce gives Steve's shoulder a squeeze. That question is meant for him.

 

"Definitely okay." It's been seven weeks of back and forths with Tony, the occasional make out with Bruce—sometimes, accidentally, under Natasha's watchful gaze. They've come a long way since Steve jumped him in his living room because he thought it would keep the peace, but that doesn't mean old wounds have all healed up. The scar tissue is still tender.

 

"Okay." Bruce releases him and Steve wonders how hard it must be to get back into the right mindset after an interruption. He gets his answer just short moments later as Bruce nudges the bedroom door open and leads the way inside.

 

The blinds are down, the lights off. Candles glow on almost every surface. Steve feels his breath catch as Tony comes into view. He's stark naked, his glutes clenching and unclenching as he pulls on his restraints. The St. Andrew's cross is sturdy—his own creation—and doesn't even creak.

 

Bruce swats lightly at his left cheek. "We have company. You know what that means?"

 

When Tony doesn't answer quickly enough, Bruce hits him again. _His other cheek_ , Steve notes absently; Bruce is careful to layer his strokes.

 

"Yes!" Tony cries out. It's anybody's guess if that's an answer or a plea for more.

 

Bruce seems satisfied, at least, his smile frosty and a little cruel. "Have a seat," he invites Natasha. He doesn't address Steve; he's someone else's property, not really a person. The thought nearly cuts him at the knees. "Would you like a drink?"

 

Natasha shakes her head. Steve can't but help think a whiskey would do wonders to calm his racing heart, but he's talked about this with Tony. Bruce doesn't hold with drinking and scening at the same time. Besides, Steve isn't supposed to speak unless spoken to. He almost thinks it might be the case when Natasha snaps her fingers at him, but no, she only wants him to drop to his knees.

 

There is a pillow at Steve's feet; he didn't even notice it until he's on the floor, kneeling between Natasha's splayed thighs. They agreed that he would keep his clothes on this time. They're only here to watch and it wouldn't be very kind to steal Tony’s thunder. He deserves it. He looks hot strung up like that, hands and feet apart, his ass red from a good, hard spanking.

 

Steve knows him by now; if he wanted to wait, he would've waited for them. Tony planned this so he'd be mid-scene when they arrived. He doesn't want Steve or Bruce to back out.

 

It's a small mercy that Tony Stark never went into couples' therapy.

 

Natasha steals his attention with another snap of fingers. _Oh, right_. The collar. The leather is new and Steve has taken to wearing it around the apartment when the others aren't there, hoping to get it to soften a little. It still chafes if he struggles against it, so he tries not to move as Natasha secures it in place. She slides her fingers against his pulse point when she's done, testing the fit. ("Choking you isn't the point," Natasha says when Steve puts it on the first time. "And what if that's what I want?" Steve asks, cocksure and dizzy from his last orgasm. They're in bed together. Natasha laughs. "Oh god, I've created a monster.")

 

"Very nice," Bruce murmurs and Steve cants his head to find the other man watching. He can only imagine what he must look like, sitting there at Natasha's feet, a strip of leather around his neck. It gets even better when Natasha secures the leash to the D-link hanging between his collarbones; Bruce's gaze darkens, arousal tenting his slacks. It's on the tip of Steve's tongue to offer his mouth by way of relief, but it wouldn't be fair on anyone if he were to break character.

 

Besides, that's not part of what they've discussed. Tonight is for Tony and for Bruce. Steve drops his gaze, breathing a little easier when he feels Natasha's fingers card through his hair. She's generous with her praise but she won't hesitate to call him to order if he slips up. It's a reassuring thought.

 

Tony tugs at his bonds, clearly having had enough of being ignored. How he ever manages to suffer orgasm denial, Steve can't imagine; he's everything a submissive shouldn't be—loud and brash and demanding—and he doesn't seem to tolerate Bruce's distraction very well.

 

Another swat to his ass sets him straight. This time, Bruce doesn't hold back. It's a blow meant to hurt and Tony jerks against the cross, a loud groan catching in his throat.

 

"Is that what you want?" Bruce grits out. "Is it?"

 

"Yes," Tony hisses, long and sibilant, rocking on the balls of his feet. He thrusts his hips into empty air, but there’s no friction, no relief to be had.

 

Steve watches, rapt, as Bruce strikes him again, the sting of skin slapping skin beautifully loud in the candlelit bedroom. His own breaths seem to stutter out of his chest at the memory of Bruce's hand swatting his ass not so long ago. He hit and he hit until Steve couldn't stand it anymore. It hurt. Tony must feel it, too, because he shakes and squirms in agony as Bruce digs his fingers into his cheeks, spreading him wide.

 

"Look at you, slick and loose for me. You like that plug inside you? Speak up."

 

Tony hisses out his acquiescence and Steve can't see, but just the thought of a plug inside him, filling him up, has him pressing his forehead to Natasha's inner thigh. He's okay, he's fine. He makes a point to steel himself against the sudden, nearly overwhelming wave of lust. If he can't manage to watch this, he'll never make it through the whole scene. Tony did say Bruce likes to work him for a long time before he calls it a night.

 

It seems to be the case when Steve sees Bruce uncoil a long-tailed whip, the flared tip enough to make Steve squirm a little where he sits—mostly in anticipation. The first strike catches Tony unprepared. Steve wishes he could see his face, but this is better; this way Tony doesn't know what's coming and his whole body arches with the force of impact. His fists pull at his bonds, but it's no use. Natasha uses the same kind of restraints and they always hold fast when Steve is writhing in her bed, utterly at her mercy.

 

"Fuck," Tony shouts, on the third stroke. "Bruce—fuck, please..." It sounds like a _no_. Steve tenses.

 

"Begging for mercy already?" Bruce sneers. "Come, come. We both know you can do better than that." He does pause, though, and strides forward to cup Tony's chin in a rough hand. "Do I need to gag you?"

 

Steve hears the question that's really being asked: _do you need help?_ _Do you need to stop?_ It took a few weeks before Steve understood what Tony meant about this being _his_ show. Bruce is here to get him through it, not to tear down what’s left of his not-unimpressive self-esteem. The fun of tying him up and putting him through his paces is that eventually, sometimes after a lot of tears, Tony proves himself worthy.

 

It isn't hard to understand how that works. Natasha does the same thing; she'll tell him not to disappoint her, but if he fucks up, it's not about holding it against him. It was never about that. Steve gets it now.

 

"No," Tony chokes out, salt sluicing down his cheeks. "No, I'll be good."

 

This isn't the same Tony who taunted Bruce into spanking him harder. His shoulders glow pink from the stroke of the whip, but the skin is still unbroken. Steve almost thinks Bruce is going to resume the lashes when he steps back, but that would be too easy. Too predictable. Bruce sets the whip aside.

 

"Can't keep quiet," Steve hears him sigh, "can't remember to count the blows when I tell you. You're being very trying today. Perhaps I should let you hang there for an hour or two until you remember your place."

 

Tony honest-to-God slumps forward against the cross. "No. Please, no. Don't—don't leave me." It's raw and uncomfortable to hear him plead like this. Steve wants to cover his ears, stomach churning, but he doesn't dare move. The moment seems so charged and Tony sounds so desperate that the sharp tenor of his shout is enough to make Steve flinch against Natasha's legs. Her hold on the leash pulls taut, holding him in place.

 

"Remember this?" Bruce asks conversationally. "You liked it well enough the first time, Tony. What's the matter? You forgot what it feels like?" He jabs him again, the clawed tip of the cattle prod only skimming the surface of his calf. The effect is immediate.

 

"Fuck!" Tony jerks his foot against his restraints, jangling the metal links that keep him fettered to the cross. His breaths are audibly rough as he tries to glance over his shoulder at Bruce. He needn't bother; Bruce doesn't hesitate to prod him again, behind the knee, and send a prickle of electricity coursing through his body.

 

He keeps going like that, despite Tony's protests, despite the odd plea to stop, until he comes to Tony's ass. Steve thinks he's going to do what he did when they were together all those weeks ago—only with electricity instead of a vibrator. That might be bearable.

 

The sudden, sharp jab of the cattle prod between Tony's splayed thighs is not.

 

Tony cries out as if stabbed, every muscle pulling taut. He either can't or won't say no to Bruce. Sweat shines glossy on his skin, over the welts on his back, and some of that's tears, as well, and some of the mess on his thighs is probably lubricant and precome, but there's not a whole lot of time to observe the shiny swirls or the patterns of light and shadow on his skin because Bruce is there, pressing lightly against his back and kissing the back of his neck.

 

"So good for me," he's saying, a mantra without beginning or end. "You're so good, Tony. So beautiful like this." It seems to have the desired effect, because Tony relaxes a little, sagging into Bruce’s arms. He can't help a hiss as his abused back makes contact with Bruce's shirtfront, but Steve knows now that pain can be an aphrodisiac, too. It depends on who's dishing it out and why. He's not surprised when Tony tilts his head just far enough to let Bruce kiss him.

 

They part for breath and Bruce is still stroking the small of his back when Tony murmurs: "Hurts."

 

"What does?"

 

"The cattle prod."

 

"We can go back to the whip," Bruce offers. "Or my hand. You like my hand..."

 

But Tony shakes his head. "I want it. Again."

 

"Maybe we shouldn't," Bruce starts.

 

Tony doesn't let him finish. "Please, Doc. _Please_." His eyes are welling with tears. He sounds broken, but he's not. Steve has stood where he stands and he knows what it's like to crave something you should be scared of. He waits for Bruce to turn Tony down. What he gets is a sharp, shocked cry spilling from Tony's throat when he’s given what he wants. It goes on like that, not for long, enough that Tony is weak-kneed by the time Bruce sets the toy aside and starts to loosen his cuffs.

 

Steve forces himself to keep watching, even if it seems too intimate, even if Tony's cheeks are wet and his whole body is lax in Bruce's hands. Tony wants him here. They talked about this.

 

Bruce settles him on the edge of the bed, but stops him from lying down. "Hands," he tells Tony and there's no hesitation, not even a second's delay of doubt. Tony just does as he's told and the cuffs lock together at his back, securing his wrists. Now Tony can see them and they can see Tony, the warm flush on his chest and cheeks, the slick of his precome. The plug is still inside him, the flat base visible when Bruce has him spread his legs. "Don't look away," Bruce warns and Tony doesn't.

 

For some strange reason, Steve feels more exposed in his shirt and jeans than Tony looks with his cock leaking precome all over his belly. He swallows hard, aware of the tug of the collar around his throat. It's supposed to be grounding and it is, to some extent, but the thing is that Tony can see him, too, and that never entered the equation until now.

 

When they were planning this, Steve only thought of what Tony was going to look like, all vulnerable and used; how Bruce was going to push him to the brink and pull him back in all the right ways. Tony would smile and regale him with ample details and never once did he mention that he wanted to see Steve and Natasha in turn.

 

His smile may be small and exhausted, but it's there. He has Steve exactly where he wants him.

 

"Enjoying the view?" Bruce asks and Steve starts, thinking the veil has been pulled aside.

 

It's not on him to answer. Tony cants his head into a nod. "Yeah." He sounds hoarse, which shouldn't be much of a surprise after all the shouting he's been doing. Steve finds himself hoping the bedroom has decent soundproofing. Mrs. Shultz downstairs is just as likely to call the cops as she is to give them the stink-eye when they cross paths in the stairwell.

 

Bruce chuckles. Steve realizes he's been letting his mind wander again. "Am I so boring? Let's see if I can't change your mind..." He folds his fist around Tony's cock, grip obviously too lax to give him much by way of friction. Like he needs to prove he knows how to wind Tony up like a coiled spring. (He doesn't. Five minutes in the same room with him and Tony was enough to know these two are on another level; they're tuned to each other. It's nothing as fluffy as flowers and chocolates, but it's not as dark as leather and steel, either.)

 

"You're not," Tony murmurs. "You're not boring." Steve can see his abdominals flex and relax with every slick slide of Bruce's hand on his erection. It's a slow-motion jerkoff, like Bruce has all the time in the world and he can't hear the frantic hitch of Tony's breaths.

 

"No? Then what am I?" Bruce wonders, playing at nonchalance. "Maybe I should stop--"

 

Tony's body tenses beautifully, eyes wide and anxious. "Don't."

 

"Giving me orders now?" The shake of Bruce's head is slow, ponderous. He stands slowly, keeping his hand immobile on Tony's prick as he levers to seat himself behind Tony. "Since when do you give me orders, boy?" His voice is hard, icy.

 

Tony shudders as he slumps into Bruce’s arms. "I-I don't. Sorry." He licks his lips. "I'm sorry."

 

From his vantage point on the floor, Steve can see the tiny rocking motion of his hips against the bed. Tony is only as used as he wants to be used. He plays at giving into Bruce's games, but he's still chasing his climax, if unhurriedly. He's right: this is all about him.

 

"Steve," Natasha whispers, a startling break in the tenuous silence of the moment. She looks as enthralled as Steve feels.  Her hand is gentle on his cheek. "Do you want to join them?"

 

That's not part of the plan. Steve's breaths short out.

 

Natasha must pick up on his surprise, because she adds quickly, "You don't have to. But Tony mentioned he likes your mouth and Bruce won't object. Isn't that right, Bruce?"

 

"I'm willing to vary Tony's punishment," Bruce says, the corner of his lips twitching up.

 

"You don't have to," Natasha repeats even as she fingers the length of chain attached to Steve's collar. "I could feel you panting against my knee."

 

Steve nods. He's hard. He can feel the discomfort of too-tight jeans constraining his cock, briefs damp with precome. He wants nothing more than to take them off and join Tony and Bruce in bed. And yet he doesn't move.

 

"If anyone cares, I'm, uh, kinda close here," Tony huffs out. "Just FYI and all that—" The quip dies on his tongue, foreshortened by Bruce's fist squeezing his dick.

 

Steve could kiss him. Instead, he kisses Natasha.

 

"Next time?" she asks, against his lips.

 

"Next time." Steve waits for guilt to catch up and paralyze him. In the meantime, he lets Natasha restore him to his proper place and watches Tony come undone in Bruce's arms. He doesn't need to touch himself to be right there, with Tony, to savor his every moan as Bruce ramps up the teasing, edging him closer and closer until eventually, mercifully he gives in.

 

Tony doesn't cry out when he comes, but his whole body seems to fold in on itself, back curving with long-awaited relief. He looks good like that—even better when Bruce presses come-slick fingers to his lips. He doesn't have to tell Tony to lick them clean; he knows the drill by now.

 

"You okay?" Bruce murmurs, loud enough that they all hear it but clearly interested only in Tony’s reply.

 

"'m a little bit sore. Good, though." Post-orgasmic Tony is much less talkative than the usual. He lets Bruce undo his cuffs and help him to his belly without protest, only wincing a little as the thick plug is removed. "You?"

 

Bruce grins. "Five by five."

 

"Dork." Tony's smirk is lazy, fond. Steve doesn't fully understand its force until Tony catches his eye. "'n you?"

 

He's not invisible, after all. Why is that scarier than the reverse? Steve swallows hard. "I'm good."

 

"Why don't we let you have a bit of privacy?" Natasha suggests, jerking the leash. Steve starts to climb to his feet.

 

Tony's barefaced confusion stops him midway. "He's not getting a turn?"

 

"Not today."

 

They make it as far as the living room before Natasha changes her mind. It's not really the case, but when she pulls Steve to her, he's more than happy to pretend she's had a change of heart.

 

"Let me get this unclipped--"

 

"Leave it," Steve begs, sinking to his knees. "Can I just—"

 

"Yeah. Go for it." Natasha props herself against the front door, one leg over his shoulder, her miniskirt rucked up to her waist as Steve's tongue laps furiously, sloppily at her folds. He doesn't really expect her to tug his head back by the leash until she's done it—until she says, "You want to jerk off for me?"

 

Steve can't envision a world in which he'd refuse. He nods. He nods so hard and so fast he almost whacks his head against her knee. It only takes a couple of strokes, his too-tight fingers flexing around his dick as he makes a point of his tongue and lets Natasha ride his mouth however she wants. It’s not like he has enough coordination left to get them both off at the same time. He comes all over her pumps and his own shirt, gasping something that might be her name but probably isn't. Natasha never seems to mind his gibberish.

 

She’s still stroking his hair as he comes down, mouth smeared and his come dripping off Bruce’s front door.

 

“We didn’t make it home,” Steve breathes.

 

Natasha laughs—ostensibly at him, but why should he mind that? “No, we didn’t. Think this qualifies as public sex? Always wanted to try that...” They can hear Bruce and Tony in the bedroom, their voices hushed, so it’s likely they can be heard, too. Steve can’t bring himself to mind.

 

*

 

“—and then I slept for twelve hours straight,” Tony finishes. “So I have no idea what happened afterwards. Fill a guy in, kid.”

 

Steve sucks his cheeks in to conceal a smile. “None of your business.” It’s really about twenty-five percent his business, but Steve wants to keep some things private. He’s earned that right.

 

“Aren’t you a tease. See if I delight you with tales of wisdom again. Did I tell you about that one time in Davos—“

 

“You did,” Clint answers on Steve's behalf. He has a pink dildo in hand and he’s bending it backwards and forwards like a pool noodle. “And the time in Hong Kong, with your roommate and the ferry...”

 

Natasha nods. “In fairness, all of New York heard that one.”

 

“Are you trying to say I kiss and tell, Romanov?” Tony’s squint is only worth so much when he’s mixing guacamole with one hand and scrolling through his iPhone contacts with the other. “Slander. You of all people should know better than to go around making unfounded accusations—get your ass off the table, Barton.”

 

Clint pokes him with the dildo and Steve tries to retrace his steps, to figure out how, from where he started, he ever got _here_. Did it start with Natasha pushing that first fifty into his hand or Tony throwing him out? Was it Bruce’s disbelief or the hurt in Thor’s eyes when he finally understood what had been going on? Or maybe it was Clint, calling him out on his bullshit.

 

Tony finally gets through to Bruce, puts him on speaker so his voice can fill the already noisy kitchen with the garbled echoes of not-so-distant traffic. He reminds Bruce to grab another box of condoms on his way home. Steve steps out as banter about the size intensifies and Tony threatens to use his spatula if Clint doesn’t quit smacking his dick around.

 

“Hey,” Thor waves him over. “Give me a hand?”

                                                                                                                                                                                          

“Sure... what are we doing?” He finds Thor balancing on a stepladder, electric screwdriver in hand. “Home repairs at this hour?”

 

The smile Thor offer is every bit as blinding and good-natured as when Steve bests him at Mario Kart. “Nah, man, I’ve got these pulleys at the hardware store. Here, look—” He shows Steve the hooks and cranks like they’re pirate treasure. “You showed me that video with the suspensions and I thought you might want to try it. Maybe.”

 

“Oh.” The video was a particularly dirty porn flick Natasha brought home for their anniversary. Steve didn’t set out to share it, but Thor doesn’t really knock and they wound up making out on the couch with that thing playing in the background. Haven’t talked about it since. Steve was pretty sure that Thor had forgotten all about it.

 

“Not tonight,” Thor hurries to add. “Obviously. I mean, it’s just a thought—“

 

"Let me help." Steve climbs the stepladder with his heart lodged awkwardly in his throat, but if he's staring up at the ceiling, trying to nail the pulleys to the holes Thor has already drilled on his behalf, it means he can't meet Thor's eyes. There's less of a risk he'll say something dumb. (I just love you comes to mind, but is quickly quashed. He hasn't even said it to Natasha yet.)

 

He doesn't worry about losing his footing for once, because Thor is right behind him and he'll catch him if he falls.

 

"Why all three?" Steve wheezes, having screwed in the first two. "I'm not that heavy." He's been bulking up a little, what with steady meals and all, but he still looks like a scarecrow. Short of some magic potion, there's no fixing bad genes.

 

Thor grins. "Case Stark wants to give it a shot." It's a likely thing: Tony wears his daredevil tendencies like a mantle. He'll take one look at the suspensions and come up with six different improvements. He tinkers. Sometimes that leads to custom-built St. Andrew's crosses, other times it makes for self-powered Iron Man toys skittering across the living room floor.

 

"Hand me the rope." Thor does and they thread it through the loops together. Steve tugs one end to make sure the pulleys hold his weight. He's never been complicit in setting up his own playroom before. Usually Natasha takes care of that, or Bruce. Sometimes even Tony.

 

"Oh, hello," Clint drawls from the kitchen door. "Are we training for Cirque du Soleil?"

 

"Bite me, Barton," Steve says, coloring a little.

 

Clint is a very obliging guy. He strides forth and sets his teeth into the exposed skin peeking through Steve's ripped jeans right at the juncture of thigh and hip. He grins when Steve yelps; anyone who says Clint lacks a sadistic streak clearly doesn't know what they're talking about. "You—" Steve lurches a little, power tool still in hand. "You left Natasha and Tony alone?"

 

"Mm. I don't hear the smashing of crockery, though. Relax," Clint entreats. "They're all about playing nice."

 

"You're not," Steve accuses and he knows he's right because Clint's taking his shirt off and toeing at his socks, which really, really isn't fair. They've been side-eying each other for some time, but it wasn't until Steve asked him to be a part of this that Clint ramped up the smolder. There's something easy and full of innuendo about him. Steve has heard the creaking of Thor's bed in the mornings, when Clint's fold-out is empty and Steve ends up being the first in the kitchen. He's tried not to eavesdrop, but they're not exactly quiet.

 

No one in this building is.

 

Thor helps him down, fingers skimming up his flanks as he takes the electric screwdriver with his free hand. It shouldn't be hot. _I'm developing a handyman fetish_ , Steve thinks, amused. He still startles when the front door clicks open.

 

"Am I late?" Bruce wheezes. He sounds like he might've run up the stairs, grocery bag in one hand and his coat in the other.

 

Clint smirks. "Right on time. Don't have a heart attack, Doc." He takes the groceries and disappears with them into the kitchen—still half-naked, but when has that ever stopped him before—while Thor stows away both stepladder and power tools.

 

"You wanna sit?" Steve asks, a little awkward, a lot needy.

 

"Sure, yeah..." Bruce always looks somewhat awkward before they start, like he can't believe this is really happening. Tonight, though, there's a double reason. Steve's gaze tracks to the leather jacket clutched firmly in Bruce's hand. "Oh, right. I wanted to give this back. You left it at our place the other night."

 

It's the same musty, well-worn artifact he remembers. He doesn't need to touch the frayed sleeve to know its coarseness, the slight rust on the metal zipper. Bucky's jacket. How could Steve forget it?

 

Bruce cups his cheek with a warm, careful hand. "Do you want to put it on?"

 

Steve looks up. Of course, Bruce would know. He's not the most talkative guy and outside of the bedroom he looks like a bundle of nerves, all shaky and uncomfortable around strangers, but Steve knows there's little enough that escapes his notice. He never leaves them in the lurch. Maybe it's all part of his obsessive need to be in control all the time; Steve doesn't know and by now he's given up trying to understand why some people find pleasure in tending to his needs—they just do. He can give them that.

 

"Did I just kill the mood?" Bruce asks, his lips tilting down into a small, rueful grin.

 

"Never." It's clumsy and awkward, but if Clint could do it, Steve can, too. He peels off his shirt under Bruce's heated gaze, then toes off his shoes. The jeans are next, boxers nudged past his hips by the same token. He lets Bruce shake out the jacket and drape it over his shoulders like a cape. He shivers more from the sensation of softened leather on naked skin than the chill the creeps up his legs. "I probably look weird..."

 

"You look hot," Thor says, whistling.

 

Tony huffs. "Oh, we're taking off our clothes already? Why didn't anyone tell me?" He makes his way over with a swagger, as though he isn't still wearing Thor's naked-lady apron. "Hi, honey. Thanks for the condoms."

 

Steve watches them kiss, feeling less and less like a third wheel.

 

"You're all freaks," Natasha scoffs fondly. Steve can't remember if her shirt was unbuttoned before he left the kitchen. He doubts it, but she's striding over before he can ask and the urge to slide down to his knees for her is more than he can help. He's never been happier for the thick, wooly carpet.

 

Clint swings a leg over the couch, still chewing on a potato chip, and drops down with a huff. "I go away for five minutes..."

 

No one comments on the leather jacket, no one asks him to take it off. Steve closes his eyes, soothed by the slow tug of Natasha's fingers through his hair and the firm knowledge that this is where he needs to be right now. It's nothing to do with money or guilt. The only tether keeping him on his knees is a desire to be there, for Natasha and for her friends, for the scrape of stubble against his cheek.

 

Tony kisses him almost chastely, just a soft peck that goes a long way towards grounding him. "We're going to have fun tonight." It's not a threat. (Tony's lousy with threats.)

 

"Yeah," Steve says. "We are." He can feel Natasha's fingers in his hair and from the corner of his eye he can see Thor unbuttoning his jeans. Clint's taken to stroking himself through his boxers, all lazy and hedonistic. And if Tony's crouched behind Steve, then Bruce can't be far. Maybe fun is the wrong word for it, but he needs this like air. It's comforting to know he won't be judged for it.

 

With Natasha looking on, Steve loops a hand around Tony's nape and kisses him properly, like he kissed Bucky once, a long, long time ago.  

fin


End file.
